The desperate hope returned to the voice. ‘What sort of information? Is he alive? Have the police found him? Is he all right?’
‘Could I come in and talk to you, please?’
Silence.
Maria knew she was thinking it over, wondering if the words were just a ruse to gain entry. The next thing she said, she knew from experience, would be the thing that either opened the door or locked her out for good.
‘Ms Huntley,’ Maria said, ‘I’m not from one of the tabloids. I’m from the Herald. The editor of the Herald. If you wanted to check me out, I could give you a number to call. But I do need to talk to you. And you must hear what I’ve got to say.’
Silence.
Maria looked at Jamal, crossed her fingers. Jamal shrugged.
Then: a sigh through the grille. ‘OK. Third floor. Number eight.’
The door buzzed. Maria opened it, ushered Jamal inside, waited for it to close behind her, lock solidly. Then began to climb the stairs.
Maria had to admit it felt good to be back in the field. She had been a desk jockey too long.
On the third floor, Caroline Huntley was waiting for them, the door to her flat open.
Maria held out her hand to shake, Caroline accepted it. Maria gave what she hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile.
‘Maria Bennett.’
‘Caroline Huntley.’
Caroline was blonde, late twenties, Maria reckoned, tall and attractive if her features hadn’t been ravaged by lack of sleep and excess worry.
‘Could we come in, please?’ said Maria. ‘It’s easier to talk inside.’
Caroline noticed Jamal. ‘Who’s this?’ she said, fear and doubt creeping into her voice as if she had been duped. ‘He’s not a journalist.’
‘This is Jamal. And he’s the reason we’re here talking to you.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Could we?’
Caroline nodded, stepped aside. Maria smiled, thanked her and entered. Jamal nodded shyly, followed.
Caroline closed the door behind them.
Maria looked around. ‘Lovely flat,’ she said.
‘Not at its best,’ said Caroline, sitting down in an armchair. ‘But then neither am I.’
Maria nodded sympathetically. She noticed that Caroline’s sweatshirt and sweatpants were stained, her hair unbrushed.
Caroline shrugged. ‘So?’
Maria and Jamal sat down next to each other on the sofa. At Maria’s instigation, Jamal told Caroline what he had already told her. The facts were the same but his manner more deferential than with Maria: he didn’t want to upset Caroline.
‘OK,’ he said, shrugging as if embarrassed when he had finished, ‘that’s that.’
The silence in the room seemed to have taken on an almost physical presence. Jamal looked at Maria, seeking reassurance that he had said the right thing. She smiled, gave him a small nod.
‘I’m sorry, Caroline …’ said Maria.
Caroline began to cry. Hugging herself, head down, shoulders shaking.
‘I’ll, er …’ said Maria, ‘I’ll get you a drink of water.’
Caroline nodded, not really hearing.
Maria stood up, looked for the kitchen. The action was more to give Caroline a chance to take in the news alone. She motioned for Jamal to stand up, come and join her. Jamal frowned, confused.
Then the doorbell rang.
‘D’you want me to get that?’ asked Maria.
Again, Caroline nodded absently.
Maria crossed to the door, lifted the phone.
‘Yes?’
‘Interflora,’ said a male voice. ‘Delivery for …’ The sound of paper rustling. ‘Huntley? Miss Caroline Huntley.’
‘Interflora? You’re working late.’
‘Traffic,’ said the voice. ‘Last one of the night. Then I can go home.’
Maria put her hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Caroline. ‘Interflora,’ she said. ‘Should I say yes?’
Caroline waved her hand absently, blew her nose. ‘Whatever,’ she said.
Maria pressed the buzzer. ‘Third floor, flat eight,’ she said and replaced the handset. She then went into the kitchen to find a glass, fill it with water.
Soon there was a knock at the door.
‘He was quick,’ said Maria to herself. She raised her voice. ‘Can you get that, Jamal? Save Caroline getting up.’
Jamal made his way to the door, opened it.
He didn’t recognize the man at first: the hat threw him. But that cruel smile on seeing Jamal, that darkly glittering sapphire, left him in no doubt.
Fear rooted Jamal to the spot. He felt his body turn to water, then dust. He opened his mouth to scream. But had trouble finding the words.
‘Ma – Ma – Maria! Maria!’
Terror was making Jamal hysterical. He tried to back away, stumbled. Hammer entered the flat, advanced towards him.
Then stopped.
Maria was standing before him, glass of water in hand.
Hammer looked between them, smiled. The luxury of choice.
Jamal took that moment to recover his wits, dodged round Hammer and was out of the door and away before Hammer even made an attempt to grab him.
‘Jamal!’ Maria’s shout had no effect.
Hammer looked at the retreating boy, about to run after him.
Maria spoke angrily. ‘You’re not from Interflora,’ she said, standing in front of the intruder, squaring up to him. ‘Who the hell are you? What d’you want?’
Hammer smiled at her.
The tooth. The blue-jewel tooth.
Jamal’s description of his pursuer at King’s Cross came back to her. A shiver of dread ran through her body. And she knew who he was.
She looked to the doorway, the living room and back to the glass in her hand. Not knowing what else to do, she threw the water in his face.
Hammer, as an automatic reaction, punched her. His fist connected with the glass, shattering it, driving it into the front of Maria’s neck. The force of the blow carried her body back; her shoulders and head smashed against the hallway with a dull thud, the glass cutting into Maria’s flesh.
Maria went rigid, her body impaled on an icy stalactite of shock. She raised her hands to her neck, brought them away covered in blood. The jagged edges had severed arteries and veins. Blood pumped from her, fountaining against the walls and ceiling, the flat no longer warm and earthy.
Maria slid down the wall, dropped to her knees, fingers grasping uselessly at air. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. She tried to breathe, heard only a ragged, wet, sucking sound from her throat.
She scrabbled frantically at her neck, trying to stem the flow.
She tried to scream; nothing came out.
She fell over on her side, prayers flying through her mind like express trains to heaven. Her body was shaking. Twitching uncontrollably.
The stalactite shattered; icy cold all over her.
Her vision began to contract; darkness blurred the edges, crept slowly towards the centre.
She saw Caroline Huntley, face a mask of terror. She saw the intruder knock her to the floor with a single swipe. She saw him look around, find something to wrap Caroline’s body in. She saw him walk towards the door, step over her.
She tried to cry out, ask him to call an ambulance.
The words screamed, but only in her head.
Her body began to stop twitching, shaking.
The ice had penetrated her bones now.
Her vision darkened, as if she had closed her eyelids while her eyes were open.
The prayers still ran round her head, the voice becoming fainter.
Felt coldness spread to every part of her.
Felt nothing.
PART THREE
SECRET HISTORIES
19
The room was small, barely big enough for the chairs and table. The windowless walls were covered with acoustic tiles, the door heavy and grey. One single overhead strip, quietly fizzing like a dying fly,
threw out shallow, flat light. The room was oppressive, thick with the ghosts of useless lies, of desperate deals, of dead-ending self-revelations. It was hard to breathe; air, like hope, sucked from within the four walls.
Peta stared at the wall, wished she still smoked.
Not that she missed the burn of nicotine in her mouth or the feel of tar in her lungs. Smoking was a coping tool, a crutch. Something to do with her hands while she talked. Or waited. Something she drew false courage from. Like alcohol.
But she no longer used either of those things.
She sighed. Her heart fluttered. On the other side of the table. Not a good feeling for an ex-copper.
She looked at the surface, traced names both written and carved, read protestations of innocence and sometimes love, noted experiences of the police in general and certain individuals in particular, anonymous attempts to grass up members of their community.
No names she recognized. Turnover this side of the table was higher than at McDonald’s. And with fewer vacancies.
She sighed again, looked at her watch. Coming up for seven o’clock. She replayed the events of the previous night in her mind.
Donovan had been sitting on the pavement outside Father Jack’s house. He looked exhausted. She sat down next to him.
‘They’re all gone,’ he said. ‘All the children … gone …’
Peta sighed, nodded. ‘We can’t do everything, Joe. We’ve stopped a vicious abuser. But we can’t save everyone.’
Donovan shook his head. ‘But one … just one …’
She had stood up. Decided it best to leave him alone.
She had phoned the police then, told them the score. On their arrival, Amar, Donovan and herself had been asked to make out separate statements. They had agreed, while waiting, on their selective version of the truth, one that was deliberately vague over why Donovan was looking for Jamal in the first place.
Father Jack had been escorted out into a waiting car. He barely acknowledged them, looked completely broken.
‘What’ll happen to him?’ Donovan had asked. ‘Something nasty, I hope.’
‘The police force doesn’t operate like that any more, sir,’ replied the detective inspector, his expression leaving the words ‘more’s the pity’ hanging in the air but unsaid.
Si’s blanket-covered body was wheeled out, put in a waiting ambulance. Driven off.
Arc lights and white-suited SOCOs made it appear unreal, like a film set.
After nearly three hours of cross-questioning, having their statements checked for mistakes, contradictions or outright lies, the detectives seemed satisfied. The fact that Peta was ex-police helped add weight. They were free to go.
Around them news crews, print journalists, attracted by the lights, were beginning to gather.
‘If you want your story to be told properly,’ said Donovan to Peta, ‘you’d better beat this lot to it. Do it now.’
He phoned Maria, received no reply. Frowning, he put the phone away.
‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Must be asleep.’
‘Listen,’ said Peta, ‘I know a journalist, head of a freelance agency in Newcastle, Dave Bolland. Know him?’
‘Heard the name,’ said Donovan.
‘I could call him. He could get things going. Sort out an exclusive with the Herald.’
Donovan yawned. He looked beyond tired, Peta thought, down from his adrenalin high. Drained.
She probably looked the same.
‘OK,’ said Donovan. ‘Whatever. We’ll sort it out in the morning.’
They went their separate ways. As she was getting into her car, Peta was stopped by a uniformed constable.
He wanted her to come with him. Down to the station.
‘What for?’
‘Detectives would like to ask you a few more questions, miss.’
She had tried arguing but knew it would be futile. She had allowed herself to be driven to the Market Street police station.
And there she sat, still waiting.
The door opened behind her. She turned round.
‘Sorry about the delay.’ The voice was cheerful and familiar.
Heart-skip-a-beat familiar.
‘Hello, Paul,’ she said, her throat suddenly dry. She swallowed hard.
Detective Sergeant Paul Turnbull smiled. Too professionally for Peta to read anything into it.
‘Thought it was you,’ he said. He closed the door behind him, crossed the room, sat down opposite her.
His dark hair was turning grey, adding to his monochromatic appearance, his face slightly heavier, but other than that he looked the same as the last time she had seen him. Still monochromatic. An outward manifestation of his belief in life’s absolutes. Peta knew what bollocks that was. From first-hand experience of him.
He looked at her, smiled again. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘It’s the middle of the night, I’ve had a shit day, I’m exhausted and I look awful.’ The words wrapped themselves defensively round her like armour. Then, with exaggerated grace, ‘But thank you.’
Turnbull’s face was a blank mask. ‘How’s—’ he shrugged ‘—everything?’
‘Fine,’ she replied, giving nothing away. ‘Good.’
‘Good.’ He stared at her again.
Peta shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘So you’ve had a good look. Can I go now?’
Turnbull’s mask reddened slightly. ‘Just a couple of things …’
Peta folded her arms. She hadn’t been aware of how hard her heart was beating.
Turnbull picked up a sheet of paper, looked at it. ‘Just need you to … to go over your statement again. Confirm a few things …’
Peta sighed, started again. Yes, Father Jack’s house had been under surveillance. Yes, the photos and tapes would be made available to the police. Yes, including the one of a high-ranking police officer and a well-known local councillor frequenting the establishment on more than one occasion. Yes, there were also copies lodged with a national newspaper. Father Jack’s house was already open; they didn’t force their way in. Jack had heard about the operation, sent someone to wreck their equipment, them in the process. And, yes, they found Father Jack cradling the body of a dead teenager with what they assumed was the murder weapon in his hand.
Peta leaned back in her chair. ‘So can I go now?’
Turnbull studied the paper before him, looked back at Peta. ‘I know that—’ he checked himself ‘—Asian worked for you. What about this Joe Donovan? Where does he fit in?’
‘He’s the journalist, helping us write the story.’
‘Works for the Herald? Or used to?’
Peta nodded.
‘Working on anything else at the moment?’
‘You’d have to ask him that.’
Turnbull’s eyes were caught by a strange light. He looked down, scanned his notes. ‘Odd choice. Not done anything for a few years, it says here. Not since—’ his fingers traced a path down the page ‘—not since his son disappeared. Sent him off the rails. A breakdown. Son never turned up. Alive or dead.’
‘What?’
Turnbull looked up. Saw concern on her face. ‘Didn’t you know?’ he said. ‘Didn’t he tell you any of this?’
‘No …’ Peta shook her head slowly. ‘Oh my God …’
Turnbull gave a small smile. Triumph leaked from the sides. ‘This upset you, has it?’ He leaned forward. ‘Fond of this Donovan bloke, are you?’
Peta felt her cheeks redden. She realized her hands were clenched into fists.
‘Fuck you, Paul. Fuck you.’
Turnbull laughed. ‘Any time, pet.’
Peta’s anger increased. ‘Not if you were the last man on earth.’
‘That’s not what you used to say.’
She stared at him, hard. Composed herself. ‘How’s the wife, Paul? How are the kids?’
A shadow passed over his features. He didn’t answer.
‘Does she believe in a statute of limitations, Paul? Or does she t
hink that things that happened in the past stay in the past? Maybe she doesn’t know what happened. Should I tell her? Maybe things are still going on with my replacement.’
Turnbull said nothing, just stared at her.
‘Bitch.’
Peta smiled. Cold and mirthless. ‘I’m not the naive idiot I was when I first met you. I’m not the booze-dependent wreck I was when you’d finished with me either. Bitch? I could be, Paul.’
He stared at her. She returned it. He broke away first, fear flash-illuminating his features like forked lightning.
‘So is that it?’ Peta said. ‘You saw my name on the sheet so you thought you’d haul me in. Have a look. Curiosity, old times’ sake, whatever.’
He stared at her.
‘So can I go now?’
‘There’s the door.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.’
She stared at him, not able to disguise her hatred. ‘I doubt it.’
He waved goodbye to her. She rose, turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind her.
Turnbull sat unmoving, staring at the space she had occupied.
He hadn’t told her what case he was really working on. And why he imagined he would be seeing her again. Very soon.
He smiled.
Unaware that he was grinding his teeth, balling his fists.
Donovan lay in his hotel room bath, water as hot as his body could take it, bubbles up to his chin.
He luxuriated. Felt the best he had in months, if not years.
His concerns over the missing children had receded. Peta was right. They had handed a murderous child abuser over to the police. And that, once he had passed through his barrier of tiredness, had given him a high he didn’t think he would ever come down from. But nearly three hours of giving his statement had convinced him otherwise.
He had wanted to contact Maria, share the news with her. Fall asleep in her arms, wake up next to her. But she probably wouldn’t have taken kindly to being disturbed. So he would let her sleep, tell her in the morning. There would be other nights. He knew there would.
He had slept as soon as he crawled on to the bed. A deep, dreamless sleep. Peaceful. Other troubles would take care of themselves.
The Mercy Seat Page 20