‘Dom…’ She hesitated a moment, wondering how best to frame the question. ‘Carl’s surname: Kelly. Could he have had any Irish connections, do you think?’
He looked blank. ‘Irish? I don’t think so. Why do you ask.’
Before she’d come to see him today she’d wondered whether she should tell him about the fragment of newspaper found on the baby’s body. Delva’s words of caution still lingered in her mind. But looking at him now, at those wide, earnest eyes, she couldn’t believe he was anything but genuine. So she told him about the discovery: about Delva’s theory. ‘Of course, it flies in the face of everything you’ve told me about Carl,’ she added. ‘But is it possible he was covering something like that up?’ She paused, watching his face. The blank look had turned into a frown. ‘You said he couldn’t remember any detail about the flashbacks he was having,’ she went on, ‘Do you think that he was just being… well… economical with the truth?’ She held her breath, not sure how he would react to the suggestion that someone he had counselled might have pulled the wool over his eyes. To her relief, he merely shook his head.
‘I think it’d have come out one way or another,’ he said. ‘We’ve had lads in here with IRA connections. If he’d had links with people like that it would have been obvious; I’d have noticed.’
‘Okay.’ She nodded slowly. ‘There’s something else puzzling me. You described Carl as a loner; so how come he had a girlfriend? ‘
‘Oh, that started off as a prank, actually – but whoever it was ended up doing him a favour.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, some wag – someone from in here who’d just got out, we thought – put an advert in the lonely hearts column of the Evening Mail. Carl got this letter, from Jodie Shepherd, saying she’d seen it and…’ Before he could finish the sentence the door burst open.
‘You’re wanted.’ It was Gerry Kirk, the prison officer who had escorted her to the room. He stood on the threshold, arms folded, looking expectantly at Dom. There was no word of apology for interrupting their meeting and no explanation as to what was going on.
‘What is it?’ Dom got to his feet.
The officer replied in the terse shorthand he had used on Megan when she had attempted to make conversation with him earlier: ‘Beta wing. Bloke’s brother’s died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dom turned to Megan with a shake of his head. ‘Are you able to wait for half an hour?’
She nodded. ‘Don’t worry. There are things I can do from here.’ She slid her mobile out of her jacket pocket.
‘Okay – I’ll find out what’s needed and be back as soon as I can.’
When he’d gone she used the web browser facility on her phone to access her university contacts database. After a few minutes’ search on the staff intranet she found what she was looking for: an email address for Jodie Shepherd. She left a message designed to elicit a prompt reply without any clue as to why it had been sent: “The university needs to get in touch with you urgently. Please ring this number as soon as possible.” The number she left was her own mobile. The girl would see her name on the email but would not recognise it. Students rarely knew the names of any lecturers outside their own department. Jodie Shepherd would just assume some admin person was trying to get hold of her.
As she winged off the email her phone bleeped to alert her to a text message coming through. It was from Rex Wilkins, the lawyer she had tried to call about Carl Kelly’s solicitor. The message simply read: “Greaves is kosher. Best, Wilko.” Megan grunted as she deleted it. Another possibility bites the dust, she thought. If the drugs weren’t brought in by the solicitor, it had to be either a screw or Kelly’s girlfriend. But Dom seemed convinced it couldn’t be Jodie Shepherd. As she returned the phone to her pocket Dominic appeared at the door. His face was unreadable.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked, tucking her phone back in her pocket.
‘Sort of,’ he replied. ‘Jamie Ryan – nice lad – only eighteen. He’s in a hell of a state.’ There was an air of resignation in the way he said it. This is his daily fodder, Megan thought. Tragedies happening all around him: men already living on the edge pushed one step further, tumbling into the abyss. ‘I know we agreed that I wouldn’t repeat anything from my counselling sessions, but there’s something that’s really bothering me.’ She could hear his fingers tapping against the door frame. ‘Jamie’s brother was found dead in Strangeways.’
‘Oh? What happened?’
‘They think it was contaminated drugs.’ He sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. ‘Bit of a coincidence, that, isn’t it?’
‘Contaminated with what?’
‘I don’t know. They didn’t say.’
Megan felt a creeping chill in her stomach.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘That maybe I’ve got this all wrong,’ she said slowly.
‘That if there’s a dodgy batch out there, it could be the same dodgy batch that killed Carl.’
‘I suppose that is possible, yes,’ he frowned. ‘But I think it’s unlikely that the same dealers are supplying both prisons. If that was the case you’d expect to see a lot more victims on the streets.’
‘You’re right, of course. But it’s odd, isn’t it, that the person who died had a connection with this place…’ she paused, thinking it through. ‘Do you know anything about the Ryan family?’
‘Not a lot, apart from the fact they’re all Brummies.’
‘Do you know what the brother was in Strangeways for?’
‘No idea. I only know his name: Patrick. Jamie Ryan hasn’t been in here long. I’ve not spoken to him before today.’
‘I’ve got a friend who works at Strangeways,’ Megan said. ‘Someone I was at university with. She’s the deputy governor.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Friends in high places, eh?’
‘Well, it’s worth a try.’ She took out her mobile, scrolling down the contacts until she found the name she was looking for. Dom settled into a chair as she waited for the ring tone.
‘Veronica Burns.’ The familiar voice sounded breathless.
‘Ronnie, it’s Megan.’ A pause. No response. ‘Megan Rhys.’
‘Oh, Megan! Sorry. I was expecting someone else. How are you?’
‘Look, I’ve probably caught you at a bad time, so I’ll keep it brief. I’m at Balsall Gate. You’ve had a death from contaminated drugs – so have we. I’m trying to find out if there’s a link. Do you know what the drugs were cut with?’
‘Er… no. We’re waiting for the toxicology report.’
‘Did you see the guy who died?’ Megan persisted. ‘Was there anything unusual about the way he looked when they found him?’’
‘Well, yes, there was, actually,’ Ronnie replied. ‘His face…’ she tailed off as if the effort of remembering was too much for her.
‘What about his face?’ Megan could feel the blood surging through the artery in her neck, making her face hot.
‘It was horrible. I’ve never seen anything like it. He had this awful, evil grin.’
Chapter 14
At five o’clock that afternoon Megan boarded a train bound for Manchester Piccadilly. Ronnie had invited her to stay the night, promising her dinner and a look at Patrick Ryan’s file. The train was packed, and as she squeezed into one of the few remaining seats the ring tone of her mobile sounded. She scrabbled to retrieve it from her bag but by the time she’d located it the ringing had stopped. She looked in ‘Missed Calls’. Damn. Private number. She wondered if it had been Carl Kelly’s girlfriend. She could have picked up that email by now. If she was in a hotel abroad somewhere she’d be calling through a router, so nothing would show up.
A couple of minutes later she heard the beep of a voicemail message coming through. It wasn’t Jodie Shepherd: it was Jonathan. He had tried to call her from his office, whose switchboard always withheld its number. His message was short and businesslike. He thanked her for last night in the kind of
voice he might have used to thank a waitress for bringing him a meal. There was no warmth; no intimacy. Perhaps there were other people around when he sent it, she thought. But if that was the case, why had he mentioned last night at all? She thought about Nathan’s card lying face up on the doormat. Was that the reason for Jonathan’s frostiness? Or had he simply picked up the vibes she was giving out?
Although she felt guilty about the way she’d been with Jonathan she couldn’t help contrasting his voice message with the affectionate way Dominic had said goodbye a couple of hours ago: he had laid his hand gently on the bare skin above her wrist as he wished her luck. It was as if he sensed the loneliness that hovered beneath the surface of a life that was so full of other people. This thought stayed with her as she drifted into a doze, lulled by the heat of the carriage and the motion of the train. In the chaotic dreams that followed, the central character was Dominic. Scenes from the prison, the university and her past were all jumbled together but he was always there in the background, a soothing, guiding presence: guiding her to what she didn’t know.
She awoke with a start as her mobile beeped again. It was a text from Delva: “Mo’s dad’s name is Ron,” the message read. “Middle name Aaron. Birth cert gives job as army. That was 1960 so he cd hv joined cops l8r – will check.”
“Thanx Del,” she texted back. “Am on my way to M’chester 2 check poss linked death. Spk soon, Meg.” Pressing send, she glanced out of the window and spotted the floodlights of Old Trafford in the distance. She thought about Delva’s theory. Patrick Ryan: that was a very Irish-sounding name. What if he was one of the others? One of the three who had gone to take revenge on Moses Smith?
The train slowed but even before it came to a stop people were scrambling to get off. The man wedged into the seat next to her plonked his size eleven boot on her toe as he struggled to get out. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘these carriages are like bloody cattle trucks.’ She was about to echo the sentiment when her phone went off again.
‘Damn!’ She scrabbled in her bag, trying to get it before the voicemail cut in. How many times had she promised herself she’d sort out the junk she lugged around with her? And why did they make phones so small these days, anyway? ‘Hello,’ she barked, expecting to be too late.
‘Meg?’ It was Delva’s voice. ‘Can you talk? You sound a bit hassled.’
‘It’s okay – I’m just getting off the train.’ She squeezed into the space between her carriage and the next one, flattening herself against the door to the toilet as a tall girl hauled a huge rucksack onto her back, oblivious of those behind her.
‘Come on, tell me more, then.’ She could hear the excitement in Delva’s voice. ‘What’s this about another death?’
She wondered if Delva could hear the hubbub going on around her. ‘To be honest, I don’t know much more than I said in the text – can I call you back in ten minutes?’
It took longer than that to get a taxi. By the time she got through the ticket barrier there was a queue snaking all along the front of the station. Three-quarters of an hour later she was finally out of earshot, safe behind the glass partition of a black cab, on her way to the hotel where she’d arranged to meet Ronnie. But Delva’s phone was switched off. Megan glanced at her watch. She was probably on air. She sent a message giving what little information she knew, with a promise to call back as soon as she’d found out more.
She flicked down the cover of the phone and leaned across to open the window. It was good to feel the cool night air after the stifling heat of the train. As the taxi pulled up at traffic lights she glanced into the window of a house a few feet from the pavement. The light was on and she could see a man and a woman, about her age, sitting at a table, eating. There was a bottle of wine between them and as she watched she saw the man raise his glass, as if in a toast, smiling at the woman as he spoke. She felt a twinge of something in that fleeting moment before the taxi pulled away. Envy? No – it wasn’t that. To her surprise she realised that what she’d experienced was a sense of relief; that she would be spending the evening with Ronnie rather than Jonathan.
If someone had told her a few days ago that she would feel this way, she wouldn’t have believed them. At the beginning of the week she had been looking forward to spending the weekend with Jonathan; planning what they might do. But last night had changed everything. It would have been almost unbearable if he had stayed longer; if she had had to go through the motions of a relationship that was…what? Stillborn. The word jumped into her mind. With a shudder she shut the window. Where had that come from? Her thoughts switched immediately to the baby in the mortuary. But it was true: that word exactly described her relationship with Jonathan. So much promise at the start but starved of the vital elements it needed to thrive.
It wasn’t that she blamed him for spending the weekend with his daughter or for having a job that took him all over the world; but those two things together, coupled with the fact that he and she lived more than a hundred miles apart meant there simply wasn’t enough time for the relationship to develop. With Laura at school in Cardiff Jonathan wasn’t likely to want to relocate to Birmingham, even if his university would allow it. And, as a head of department, for her to move to Wales was out of the question.
You’re talking yourself out of it, aren’t you? That was her mother’s voice. If only you were here, Mum, she thought. So many times over the past three years Megan had wished she could pick up the phone and talk things over with her mother. When she was in her twenties it had never occurred to her that she would lose both parents before she turned thirty-four. What on earth would Mum make of the dilemma she was in now?
The taxi drew up outside The Midland, forcing her back to the present. As she stepped onto the pavement she glanced up at the hotel’s Edwardian façade, impressive in the early evening light. It was a welcome sight. It felt good to be away from home, if only for twenty-four hours. She was glad that tonight she would not be sleeping in her own bed; on sheets that would still smell faintly of Jonathan. Tomorrow she would change the bed; would think about returning his call; would face up to what she had to do.
As she reached the entrance to the hotel she spotted Ronnie waiting in the lobby, a briefcase at her side. Patrick Ryan’s file would be in there. Megan was desperate to know what it might contain. But she hadn’t seen her friend for more than two years. To launch straight in would be plain rude.
On seeing Megan, Ronnie rose to her feet and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking great, Meg,’ she said approvingly.
Megan rolled her eyes. ‘D’you think so? I must have put on two stone since I last saw you. It’s giving up the fags – I’m starting to look like a little Buddha.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Ronnie laughed. ‘And anyway, I hope you’re not thinking of dieting tonight – I’ve booked us a table at a Spanish tapas place on Deansgate for later. I don’t know about you, but after the day I’ve had I could eat a horse – didn’t even have time for one of those shrivelled sandwiches from the canteen.’
With a shock Megan realised that nothing bar a Starbucks double espresso had passed her lips since the banana she’d grabbed from the fruit bowl for breakfast. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel all that hungry – even the packet of prunes in her bag had remained untouched. Perhaps her body was finally learning to do with less food. ‘Well, I must admit I avoided the British Rail catering on the way up,’ she laughed. ‘The damn train was so packed I didn’t dare leave my seat. But how about a couple of Margaritas to warm us up? Do you think you can still handle it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I haven’t quite got the staying power I used to have. So perhaps something non-alcoholic to start?’
As Megan followed the sober-suited Ronnie to the bar she smiled at the thought of her friend, the legendary university party animal, becoming the abstemious deputy governor of one of Britain’s biggest jails. They’d both been high octane as students: she remembered the time they went on a whim to get th
eir noses pierced after downing a bottle of tequila the day their finals ended. Ronnie had let hers heal up; she had toned herself down a lot since those carefree college days. As well as losing the nose stud she had let her hair – once dyed a vivid magenta – return to its natural brown. The style she wore it in now was a short, no-fuss cut. As a woman working in a men’s prison it didn’t do to stand out in anyway. Megan had learnt that lesson a long time ago.
As the Margaritas arrived – one alcohol free – Ronnie beamed at Megan across the table. ‘I’m really glad we’ve been able to get together tonight – even though it’s not for a very nice reason – because I’ve just had some really good news.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
There was a brief pause. Ronnie, still smiling, was blushing.
‘Come on,’ said Megan, ‘What is it? You look like the cat who got the cream. Don’t tell me you’re going to be a governor at thirty-seven?’
‘No, much better than that – I’m pregnant.’
‘God, Ronnie…’ Megan was suddenly lost for words. This was the last thing she’d expected. She’d always had Ronnie down as the archetypal career woman – someone who was determined to make her mark in what was still a man’s world. She distinctly remembered a conversation they’d had as students, when Ronnie had forcefully made the point that women having it all was a fallacy. She had cited her own mother as a perfect example: an Oxford law graduate trying to combine a career as a barrister with raising three children. In the end she had given up, Ronnie said, because she couldn’t bear the fact that if they were ill or upset they called for the nanny, not her.
‘Well, aren’t you pleased for me?’ Ronnie’s voice brought her back to the present.
‘Sorry, of course I am.’ Megan made herself smile. She was pleased but she was also as envious as hell. ‘I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all,’ she said, swallowing hard.
‘Don’t worry – so was I! I never thought it was going to happen for us.’
The Killer Inside Page 11