by Sarah Hilary
They’d exhausted every other avenue, sifting through CCTV, alerting officials, contacting former workmates, neighbours, anyone who might have seen Vokey since his escape. At least they had the letters to follow up now. Otherwise it was starting to feel as if he’d vanished into thin air.
‘The camera never lies.’ Marnie was studying the photos. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Not everyone. Diane Arbus said a photograph is “a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.” That’s what this feels like to me.’
‘These women who sent him their photos – why?’
‘Attention,’ Noah said. ‘Obsession. He’s clearly obsessed with imagery, with ownership.’
As if he could steal their souls, capture them in emulsion.
Marnie stepped close to the wall, putting her hand on the face of the young woman with a band of shadow blacking her eyes. ‘This is Julie Seton.’
Noah nodded. ‘I’m thinking we should talk with her again. If anyone knows what Vokey looks like, it’s her.’
‘Let’s do that,’ Marnie agreed. ‘And let’s get looking for these other two. Ruth, and Lara.’ She stayed standing by the wall, her hand on the young mother’s face, fingers thinly splayed. ‘Julie has a little girl. I want her to feel safe. I want them both to feel safe.’
7
I’ve been thinking a lot about Julie, stuck in here with just my lucky nurse for company. She’s started calling me Ted. It was ‘Mr Elms’ at first, then Edward, but now it’s Ted. She’s a nice woman, old enough to be a mother. I wish I could ask her about her kids. Julie was sixteen when she had her little girl, Natalie. Teenage pregnancy, nothing unusual in that, certainly not in this day and age. But the way Mickey talked about her, you’d think it was an immaculate conception, that she was the Virgin Mary, untouched except by him – until by him.
‘I was her first,’ he said.
‘What about Natalie?’ I wanted to know.
That’s when I first saw the warning siren flashing. My mistake, challenging his version of events. I wouldn’t make it again. You wouldn’t either, if he’d done to you what he did to me.
Batteries. Six of them. He fills his fist and I think it’s a punch coming but he grabs me by the throat, shoves me face down in his pillow and feeds me the whole handful—
Six batteries clattering against my teeth, making my tongue fizz, my tonsils pop.
He’s on me, all his weight in my kidneys and he’s not a light man, Mickey. I’m thrashing, trying to get him off, trying to breathe. He has the heel of his hand on my head, grinding my face into the pillow, and I’ve taken worse but not with a mouthful of batteries, not without any way to breathe and now a punch to the side of my throat so that I’m swallowing, I’m swallowing batteries and I think, They’ll call this a protest, they’ll say I did this on purpose, and I can’t breathe and my spine’s snapping but even so I’m worrying about the hospital, who’ll look after my plants if I’m out of here for too many days, and I know—
I know that doesn’t sound normal. I should be worrying about whether he’ll let me live or if he wants to choke me to death. At the very least I should be thinking of the pain, how much it hurts to have six hard fingers of plastic-coated metal fighting down your throat, how much it’ll hurt at the other end, coming out. But part of me’s absolutely certain he won’t kill me. Because he needs me – who else is going to listen to his lies about Julie and the others? So much of it’s lies. Like saying he was her first when she already had Natalie. Trouble is, they lie too. Not Julie, not that I know of. But Lara, and Ruth. They’re lying in their letters, they must be. Who asks to be tortured? Who the hell wants to be a torturer’s best friend?
When he takes his hand away, Mickey wipes it on the pillow next to my face. I see blood in my spit because I bit my tongue. He rolls me onto my side and hits my chest a couple of times, which helps. The last of the batteries dislodges itself from my windpipe and goes down with the others, into my stomach. I can breathe again and I start laughing, out of relief.
Mickey leans over me, watching my face. I’m crying as well as laughing, leaking spit and tears, snot and blood. I suppose he can’t help what he does next. He reaches for his sketchpad. Sits up, straddling me. Wets the square end of a charcoal with the tip of his tongue, spits sideways and starts to draw. I squeeze shut my eyes but he grunts, so I open them.
I can taste the batteries, my throat’s on fire. I try not to think about them leaking acid, burning a hole in my stomach. Even so, I retch and moan. He sits on me like a mastiff with his lips hanging full of blood, his whole face altered by it, eyes long and slitted, watching me as he draws. He makes me think of the Thorn of the Cross, which is called one of the ugliest plants in the world because its leaves grow in cross-shaped spikes. Mickey’s more like a succulent, the way the blood goes to his lips and nostrils as he bends over me, thighs tightening to hold me still as he sketches. I moan a bit more, but it makes no difference. He’s lost in what he’s doing.
The charcoal rubs at the paper, a rough sound like the padding of paws. Smoke rises from the sketchpad and hangs in a little cloud until he blows it away, which makes my eyes tear up all over again. His breath’s sweet and putrid. I start to cry, I don’t know why. It’s not fear any more, or even pain. It’s the way he’s sitting on me, holding me with the long clench of his legs. It’s how it makes me feel, in spite of everything. I feel—
Safe. Real. I’m right where I’ve always been, but for the first time I make sense to myself. This is what they want, I realise, the women who write to him. They just want to feel real, not empty or aimless, spiralling through space. Pinned down, named. Needed.
I can still taste those batteries today. Worse than ever now I’m wired up to these machines with only my nurse for company. She doesn’t need to be named or needed. She’s doing a useful thing with her life, helping men like me who can’t help ourselves. Making us better, well enough to leave these beds and go home. In my case, back to prison. I want to go back to prison because Mickey won’t be there this time, because he’s gone. They think they’re hunting a man who gets his kicks hurting people. Women for preference, but he’s not picky. They know what he did to Julie, but they don’t know the half of it. Not even those detectives, that redhead who looks so serious and so sad. I want to tell her, ‘You’re not hunting a man. You’re hunting a monster.’
What he did to Julie was nothing. What Lara wishes he’d do to her, that’s nothing. It’s the stuff they never caught him for, that’s what they need to be scared of. Stuff only I know about.
Lying in the bunk that was mine, rubbing at his photos, at himself, telling stories which might be fantasies but aren’t. I know, you see. You can’t live that close to someone without finding out the sort of man he is, and they’re hunting a monster. Mickey is a monster.
I hope to God one of them works that out, and fast.
8
‘Lara Chorley, and Ruth Hull.’ Marnie pinned the new faces to the board. ‘What do these two women have in common?’
‘Apart from crap taste in men?’ Ron flapped the collar of his shirt, sweating freely thanks to the heating system’s lavish interpretation of 22ºC.
‘They started corresponding with Michael Vokey shortly before his trial a year ago. From what we’ve read in their letters, he was writing back. DCS Ferguson wants us to interview both women as soon as possible. We’re liaising with local police in case Vokey’s gone after one of them, to hide or to harm. Debbie, what do we have so far?’
‘We’ve traced Ruth to a home address in Danbury in Essex. If the address is right then she’s living in a church mission.’
‘That tallies with her letters,’ Colin said. ‘She’s the one wanting to save Vokey’s soul.’
‘God-botherer,’ Ron abridged. ‘What about Lara?’ He used his lanyard as a fan. ‘She’s the one writing the sickest letters.’
‘Lara lives in Keswick, in Cumbria. She’s divorced with two kids. A son
who’s studying law at university, and a daughter who works for the National Trust.’
‘Jesus,’ Ron said. ‘Empty nest syndrome hitting hard, is it?’
‘Let’s stick to the facts.’ Marnie nodded at the board. ‘These women need to be questioned about their correspondence with Vokey, whether he shared details of places he may have gone, or gave any clues in that regard. We need local police onside, this has to be a team effort. Noah?’
‘We’re going to see Julie to reassure her about the measures in place to keep her and Natalie safe, and in case she has any ideas about where he might be hiding. We know he’s not been near his mum’s house since he ran. CCTV’s tight around there and while he’s not an easy man to identify, we’ve had three sets of eyes over everything without any joy. I don’t think he went home.’ Noah paused. ‘We have one other possible lead. Michael’s sister, Alyson. She’s been interviewed once already, insists she’s had no contact with her brother in months.’
‘Put her on the board,’ Marnie nodded. ‘We’ll call her after we’ve visited Julie.’ She turned to the team. ‘Debbie, I’d like you to concentrate on Lara. Make friends with Cumbria Police, let them know what’s on our mind. Ron, see what you can find out about Ruth. And Colin, keep at the paper trail. We’re missing too much of this puzzle. Lots to cover, so let’s get to work. Thanks, everyone.’
In the station car park, Marnie’s phone rang.
‘It’s the hospital.’ She handed Noah the car keys. ‘I’d better take this.’
He nodded, unlocking the pool car to discover sugary crumbs on the passenger seat. Doughnuts, from the fatty smell. He brushed the crumbs into the footwell and climbed in, watching Marnie through the car’s windscreen. She was standing with her head bowed, the phone at her ear. What was the news from the hospital? Ted Elms, or Stephen Keele? Her expression gave nothing away.
Noah’s own phone rang and he reached for it. ‘DS Jake.’
‘Noah, hi. It’s Harry Kennedy. Do you have a minute?’
DS Harry Kennedy was with Trident, the Met’s Gang Crime Command. Seven weeks ago he’d been fighting for his life, a victim of the same crime that’d landed Noah in hospital. Harry was back at work now and busy by the sound of it. Trident was after Sol’s allegiance, had offered protection to Noah’s little brother in exchange for information about his old gang. Noah had hoped it might work as a way out for Sol, who couldn’t keep running or hiding forever.
‘We’re about to set off,’ he told Harry, ‘but yes. What’s up?’
‘It’s Sol.’ Harry kept his voice light, but serious. ‘We’ve brought in a member of his gang and he’s talking. We can’t shut him up, in fact. A lot of it’s smoke, but I wanted to give you a heads up. Some of it’s bound to bounce back at you, at least in the short term. I’m sorry.’
A car pulled out of the station and just for a second Noah met his own eyes in the dark surface of the windscreen. He blinked, and looked away. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Enough for new questions to be asked.’ He heard regret in Harry’s voice. ‘He’s likely to be re-interviewed under caution.’
‘Is it worse than what we had? If you charge him. Is it worse?’ Noah had arrested his brother for importing Class C drugs. Had he known Sol would end up on remand for nine months, he’d’ve handled it differently. Prison was the last place Sol needed to be right now, the last place he’d get help. Far more likely he’d end up making dangerous new friends, or enemies.
Harry had gone quiet but now he said, ‘Firearms, Class B. I’m sorry. Noah? Call me later. I’ll fill you in as far as I can, but it’s sticky right now. We’re going after a production order.’
A production order meant a court appearance, his mother in her best hat again. Noah winced. Guilt was like a piece of shrapnel travelling around inside him, never in the same place twice so he couldn’t ever get comfortable, accustomed to its pain. Firearms, Class B, meant a minimum sentence of five years. Sol was struggling to do nine months.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said again. He was breaking protocol by making this call.
‘Thanks. I understand. And I appreciate the heads up.’
When Harry ended the call, Noah lowered the phone to his lap, cleaning the screen with his thumb. So that was it. He’d put his little brother behind bars, and the gang Sol had hoped to escape was taking its revenge. This new evidence could be a warning shot in case he was tempted to turn informant, or it could be a lesson to others in the same gang. Sol wasn’t a gun runner, Noah was sure of that, but what chance would he have to prove it, now? And if the gang was firing warning shots, Sol could be in real danger. There was no good reason to imagine Pentonville was any safer than Cloverton. How had Noah not seen this coming?
You did this. Your own brother. This’s on you.
His fist tightened around the phone. How was he going to tell his parents?
‘Ted Elms took a turn for the worse.’ Marnie got into the driver’s seat. ‘They’ve stabilised him, but it was touch and go last night . . . Noah?’
‘Yes.’ He put the phone away.
‘Keys?’ She had her eyes dead ahead, not seeing the effort it took him to smile.
He handed over the keys and she started the car, saying, ‘They’ll keep us posted, but it’s not looking good. We’re advised to hold off on further visits until we hear from them.’
Noah thought of the seed catalogue brought back from the post room at Cloverton, the sunny pictures of summer gardens. ‘Poor Ted.’
Marnie was focused on reversing from the narrow parking space and missed the emotion in his voice. He was glad, not ready to share this latest trouble over Sol. ‘So . . . Julie Seton?’
‘Let’s tread carefully,’ Marnie said. ‘I imagine she’s very frightened right now.’
‘I called her Victim Support Officer to see if she’d be with Julie during our meeting. There’s Natalie to consider too.’ Noah thought of the child’s face from the collage in Vokey’s house, a press clipping from his trial which he’d pinned to the wall as if it belonged to him. He should never have been bailed. ‘Six years old and she saw Vokey terrorise her mum. The VSO said Julie’s a tougher nut to crack, insisting she’s okay, asking to be left alone to get on with her life. She didn’t want to give evidence at the trial but she did it for Natalie’s sake, to prove she’s a strong mum after what Natalie witnessed that night.’ Noah glanced across at Marnie. ‘That grave in the cellar. Do you think there’s a chance he’ll go after Julie, or Natalie?’
Marnie kept her eyes on the traffic. ‘Not unless he wants to be caught. We had officers at Julie’s house as soon as the alarm was raised. We can’t rule it out, since it was her evidence that put him away. Revenge is a motive for all manner of madness. But after what he did at Cloverton, he’s looking at a life sentence. I doubt he’ll want to play those odds.’
‘He wasn’t a killer, that’s what his defence lawyer argued in court. He didn’t kill Julie, didn’t use a knife or any kind of weapon, and he never touched Natalie. He could control himself, that’s what the jury heard.’ Noah adjusted the seat belt, his bruised ribs nagging at him. ‘He just chose not to, when it came to Julie.’
‘We need to be careful what we disclose,’ Marnie said. ‘I don’t want Julie hearing about the grave, or our theory that he’s about to kill. Not until we have a proper profile, anyway.’ She glanced at Noah. ‘You saw that cellar. What went through your head? Give me your gut instinct.’
That whoever dug the grave intended to bury something, or someone.
‘He wasn’t acting on impulse when he dug it.’ Noah rolled his neck. ‘Far too neat a job for that. He put a lot of thought into it, kept the bricks so he could build the floor back up afterwards.’
‘His defence lawyer was right, then. He’s in control of himself.’ Marnie watched the traffic ahead. ‘He could have killed Julie that night. Alone in the house all that time. Do you think he meant to? That Natalie saved her mum’s life by appearing when she did?’
&nbs
p; ‘The judge didn’t think so, going by the sentence he handed out. Vokey was bailed because he wasn’t a serious threat to the public. Of course the jury didn’t know about the grave, or the house full of photos.’ Noah looked to where the streets were crowding, pavements narrowing as they approached the estate. ‘Ron’s right, prison was the perfect place for him to cultivate his worst instincts. He was never going to get better there, only worse.’ The street’s shadows chilled his face. ‘Prison was the perfect place for him to escalate to full-blown murder.’
Julie and Natalie Seton lived in Edmonton, a part of London where knives were carried as routinely as mobile phones. Julie had grown up on the same estate, with her mum just a block away, her gran too. Julie worked in the chippy. Her hair and clothes stank of fish and fat no matter how much she washed, but it’d got so she didn’t really notice any more. That night when Vokey told her she stank, she didn’t understand what he was saying, not right away. He was talking about the grease in her hair. It was in her eyelashes, and the hairs up her nose. It was in her ears. ‘You stink,’ he said. ‘You really stink.’
She was concentrating on breathing with the weight of him on her chest and how he looked when he leaned in to sniff at her hair and ears, at her eyelashes, all the blood in his face running to his lips, black and swollen— She was concentrating on not screaming and waking Natalie.
The entire flat stank of chips, but it was better than Julie’s mum’s place, which stank of Airwick plug-ins because she couldn’t give up smoking. She’d tried but she couldn’t do it. Same for Julie’s nan. Julie’d been a smoker before she fell pregnant but she’d quit for Natalie’s sake, and after that she could either afford cigarettes or nappies but not both. She hated that her mum and gran smoked round Nat, told them it was doing her head in worrying Nat’d grow up to be a smoker. Worse things to be, Mum said, but Gran agreed with Julie and tried not to smoke when her great-grandchild was round. Even so there were days when Julie caught Nat sucking on a crayon, pretending it was Silk Cut. Boys in the same year at her school were smoking Silk Cut, so it really could’ve been worse. It was what everyone kept saying about everything. About Vokey, that night – him sat like a slab on her chest – and everything that came after. They kept saying, ‘It could’ve been worse, Julie.’