by Huw Thomas
Rebecca gave a wry smile to herself as she started to remember the previous evening. Part of her felt almost disappointed. She had been wary about coming to Haworth Manor on her own, out of hours so to speak. Staying to share food, confidences and wine with the artist seemed even more risky. After the flirtation and flattery that ended their first encounter, Rebecca fully expected Cash to try to seduce her, or at least make some kind of pass.
In the event, despite the roguish attitude, the artist acted the perfect gentleman. Now she was unsure whether to be relieved or slightly offended.
She found Cash on the terrace in front of the house. He was poised, arms above his head, half-bent and joined at the palms. His legs were at similar angles. The artist wore a pair of loose, baggy trousers and a long linen shirt. He resembled some kind of silver-haired Balinese dancer.
Cash lowered his arms and swivelled smoothly on one foot to face Rebecca as she approached across the gravel. He let out a long breath and pulled himself up straight in a surprisingly graceful motion. ‘Good morning, my dear. You slept well, I hope?’
Rebecca nodded cautiously. ‘Well… I think so. I don’t really remember much about it to be honest.’
Cash grinned. ‘Hmm. You did seem fairly ready for sleep as I recall.’
Rebecca shook her head gently. ‘Please remind me not to drink so much wine again.’ She looked at Cash suspiciously. ‘And how come you’re looking so damn fit and healthy this morning?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, a couple of reasons. One is that I’ve got years more experience of dealing with hangovers. The other is that I didn’t actually drink that much last night.’
‘What?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Cash sighed. ‘The sad truth I’ve reluctantly had to begin facing is I’m not as young as I used to be and all those years of… good living have taken their toll. I’m lucky enough not to have done any major harm but I’ve had it quite firmly pointed out by my doctors that if I want to reach my centenary I’ll need to go a bit easier in future.’
‘Your centenary?’ said Rebecca. ‘That’s still a way off.’
Cash stepped over and draped a long arm around her shoulders. ‘Yes, which is all the more reason to listen to the medical profession if I want to reach it.’
Rebecca suddenly stiffened. ‘Oh my god! What time is it?’
Cash showed her a bare arm.
‘I’m supposed to be at work by nine!’
Cash laughed. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Why not?’ Rebecca pulled free. ‘It’s all right for you to laugh but I don’t want to get sacked.’
‘Don’t worry,’ repeated Cash. ‘I’ve already rung the dear Ms Hamilton to tell her I’ve asked you to come here for a meeting this morning. Anyway, you were off sick yesterday so you could always have called in ill again.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘Besides, if you get sacked you can still have the job I’ve offered you. Although… hmm, I suppose if you end up out of work I probably wouldn’t have to offer you as much pay.’
Rebecca raised her fist.
Cash backed away grinning. ‘Hey, you can’t threaten your future employer!’
She curled her lip. ‘Why not? I reckon that if I do decide to come and work for you, you’re going to need keeping in order.’
Cash raised an eyebrow and leered at Rebecca. ‘Ooh, yes please.’
She was about to try and summon up a suitable response when the sound of tyres crunching on gravel turned Rebecca’s head towards the approaching vehicle. Moments later, a taxi appeared around the corner of the mansion.
Cash stepped to Rebecca’s side again and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘I thought maybe we could continue from where we left off last night.’
‘How do you mean?’ She looked at him in surprise then back again at the taxi. ‘Did you…’
The taxi drew to a halt and Rebecca stepped away from Cash, looking through the tinted glass, past the driver and towards the passenger in the back.
Harper had got the call from Cash at eight that morning. He had hardly slept the night before. Although it was gone midnight by the time he got home, he was wary of sleep: unsure whether it would bring him the rest he sought. Finding a part-full bottle of whisky, he had sat and nursed a healthy couple of drams, hoping the malt would soothe his mind. Alone in the still-strange flat, he sank into mental torpor, a kind of state between thought and total blankness that took him through to beyond two in the morning. In the end though, he fell into bed and, for a while, slept peacefully.
But then the dreams returned: at first only quick-fire snapshots that came sneaking in like fireworks shattering the peace of the night sky, swift glimpses of lives that may or may not have been real. They troubled him; even in his sleep he was unsure what to make of them, not quite able to dismiss them but not able to place the images either. And then the same nightmare followed. The dual dream of pursued and pursuer, both equally disturbing in their implacable intensity.
He woke not long after seven, only partly refreshed, tangled in body and soul. By the time Cash rang, he had been up for a while and was moving slowly around his flat. Not sure what he hoped to find, he sifted through the physical detritus of his other life, further exploring the flat and its contents. And while shuffling possessions from place to place, his mind tried to do the same with the emotional cacophony created by the previous night’s revelations.
The shock of spotting a serial killer sitting only feet away had wrenched Harper’s mind away from his own problems. He was stunned to see Van Hulle in the restaurant. The discovery of the bodies and the developer’s subsequent arrest left no doubt it was a cut-and-dried case. Harper was as certain of Van Hulle’s guilt as of his own story. Which meant that, if this was an alternative reality, seeking to check on his victims must be a logical next step. Clearly, Harper’s choice of method had been a mistake. On the other hand, while not really clarifying matters the events his actions provoked had proved illuminating.
In the end, the interrogation in the gym was resolved relatively peacefully. After being told Harper had not seen Stacey Cole for a couple of months, the man with the torch seemed to lose interest. Harper suspected his punch was less to do with his anger over finding a journalist prowling around her back garden and more a way of venting frustration.
Wiping away the blood trickling down from a cut above his eyebrow, Harper asked if something had happened to Stacey.
‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
The policeman, Glasgow, came forwards again. ‘You know anything about where Stacey might be, Mr Harper?’
‘No. Like I said, I was hoping to talk to her. I didn’t know if she was going to be at home or not… I didn’t have her telephone number.’
‘So why did you want to talk to her?’
The question stumped Harper for a moment. The initial temptation was to say he was investigating stories of women disappearing and hope they would tell him what had happened to Stacey Cole. But that risked opening a Pandora’s box of questions there was no way of Harper answering. They would want to know what else he knew and who his sources were. The truth was unlikely to be believed and he did not want to risk being caught in a lie. Although there was a policeman present, having Glasgow in the room did not make Harper feel any safer.
The only solution was vagueness. ‘Just a story I’ve been thinking of doing on the, er… escort business. I wondered if she might know something about it and be willing to give me some background.’
Harper gritted his teeth. He still had no idea what these people’s connection was with Stacey Cole. He could also only presume her profession was still the same and they knew how she earned her money. But with everything that he thought he knew already thrown into doubt, nothing seemed guaranteed any more. He just had to hope he was not saying anything likely to incur the wrath of his captors.
In the end, he did not learn anything else and they let him go soon after: simply shoving him out onto the street and leaving him to make his way home. On the way, Harpe
r phoned Brendan and gave him a quick summary of what happened.
‘You’re lucky I’m a quick thinker, boy.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Your friend, the policeman…’
‘No friend of mine.’
‘Maybe not. But when he called me, he was using your phone. As soon as the number came up and it was some other feller’s voice on the other end I knew something was up. And, from what I’ve heard he’s not exactly a man to play games. Anyway, I didn’t want to give anything away until I knew what he wanted: which was an alibi for you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harper, ‘I worked that much out. I was praying I’d been with you. I’ve got no idea where I was supposed to be. As far as I remember, I was at home with Rebecca.’
‘Ah, well, maybe you were and maybe you weren’t. But the thing is, Danny boy, you weren’t with me.’
‘But I thought…’
‘Sure you did, and it was a good guess. But where you were last Thursday I have no idea. I was down the Schooner and so were a whole load of people from The Post. You were supposed to be there but you never made it. Did one of your disappearing tricks. I thought maybe you’d found yourself a sympathetic pillow for the evening.’
Harper frowned at Brendan’s choice of words. ‘What do you mean my ‘disappearing tricks’?’
Brendan’s laugh had sounded a touch weary. ‘Ah, come on, Danny. Maybe it’s different in this other life of yours but in this one… well, let’s just say you’re not always the most reliable of fellows. It’s not exactly unknown for you to agree to meet someone and then not turn up. I mean, sure, there’s always a reason but most of us do a bit better at letting our friends know when something else comes up.’
‘Right.’
‘Danny, Danny, I’m not meaning to have a go at you, boy. It’s just very late, I’m tired, you’re tired and to be honest, things have been a wee bit strange over the past couple of days. Anyway,’ Brendan gave a long sigh, ‘your place in the reliability stakes isn’t exactly what’s important. The point is I’ve given your man from the polis an alibi for you. It should do the job but remember that it’s not exactly watertight.’
Harper nodded, his newly re-battered body feeling stiff and weary as he made his way along a back street towards the station. ‘Thanks, Brendan. I appreciate it…’ He blinked, fingers tight on the hard casing of the mobile phone. ‘I really do. I don’t know where I’d be at the moment without you.’
There was a moment’s silence before Brendan’s response. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it, boy. That’s what friends are for. Anyway, where are you now?’
‘Nearly home.’
‘I was needing to talk to you anyway. It’s about your father.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well… it would maybe be better if you came round.’
At that moment Harper turned the corner into the road where his flat was located. He felt physically shattered as well as emotionally drained. He was not sure he could handle anything more the same night. His father was dead; whatever Brendan had to say would not change that. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ said Brendan. ‘I guess so. I’ll be around in the afternoon once I’ve finished my shift. Why don’t you pop round some time?’
Now, as the taxi followed the drive down towards Haworth Manor, Harper looked around curiously, unsure why he was wanted here. Then the car turned the corner of the old mansion and he saw Rebecca standing at the end of a broad terrace. Next to her was Paul Cash: one hand resting on her shoulder.
Harper stiffened. He had met Cash in passing several times in the past: including at a gallery opening, backstage at a music festival and a couple of other public events. On each occasion, an entourage of sycophants accompanied the grey-haired artist.
A distinctive figure, even without embellishment, Cash always appeared to revel in the attention of fans and detractors alike. Tall and lean, with compelling eyes and a chiselled face, the painter had a penchant for flowing, robe-like garments that accentuated his messianic appearance. That combination of a flair for public display, married with his undeniable charisma and notoriety, inevitably attracted a gaggle of hangers-on at any public event. Many were women, often attractive and much, much younger than the artist.
In the past, Harper had felt a mixture of envy and admiration for the man. Now, seeing Cash in close proximity to Rebecca, he felt slightly sick.
24. Unfinished Business
Thursday, 9.15am:
The blue and white tape sealing off a section of Smith Street had already attracted a number of onlookers. Small groups of residents stood at either end of the police cordon, gawping eagerly as they waited to see what the fuss was about. There was also one reporter from the local radio station; acting on a tip-off, the journalist was trying unsuccessfully to attract the attention of anyone who would talk to him.
Robert Glasgow ducked quietly under one corner of the tape and made his way towards the tent erected on the pavement. A uniformed officer moved to halt him but stopped when he recognised the inspector.
The constable gave a respectful nod. ‘Sir.’
Glasgow ignored the young policeman and approached the group standing outside the tent. ‘Jim, what’s up?’
The bald man at the centre of the gaggle turned. ‘Hey, Rob. I was hoping you’d be here soon.’
‘What have you got?’
His colleague shrugged. ‘A puzzle, that’s what we’ve got.’
Glasgow frowned. ‘What kind of puzzle?’
Jim Stanley exhaled slowly. ‘Best thing is if I show you. But, before we take you down, I’ll fill you in on the background.’
Glasgow nodded. His eyes moved around the other members of the group. Smith was a detective inspector from the city’s eastern beat, covering the area around the train station and the streets to its north. Although including some commercial businesses, the district was mainly residential: a lot of it made up of old terraced housing yet to be gentrified. Many of the houses were bedsits and flats. The area contained large numbers of students but also a fair number of those who lived off one form of benefit or another.
Stanley had his sergeant with him. Sharon Redman was as tough as nails, one of those women who had seen enough of life’s seamier side not to have any illusions left. A slim blonde with not unattractive features, she matched her police uniform with precision make-up. The appearance was deceptive; Glasgow had seen her lay out a drunken football hooligan twice her weight and pin him to the ground.
Sharon Redman gave Glasgow a curt nod.
The other three were strangers. Glasgow knew they were not police. From the look of them, he guessed they were either from the council or some similar body: petty functionaries of one kind or another.
Jim Stanley took Glasgow’s arm and steered him to one side. The older man frowned, running the palms of his hand along the sides of his leathery skull. He had been coming to the end of his shift when the information reached his office. Now he was frustrated as well as tired.
‘We had a caller last night,’ he began. ‘He wanted to tell us where there was a body hidden.’
Glasgow nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Yeah, right so far. Couldn’t tell us a name but said the deceased was probably a prostitute. Killed in the last few months, he reckoned.’ Stanley shrugged. ‘That’s why I called you, remembering what you were asking about the other day. Wondered if you were on to something and whether this might tie in.’
Glasgow raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘Caller told us to look in a section of the main sewers here under Smith Street. Said we’d find the victim hidden behind a wall. Reckoned part of the sewer had been blocked up and the woman’s body would be inside. ‘Sealed up like a tomb’ were his words.’
Stanley paused and Glasgow waited for him to continue.
‘Well,’ the older man said eventually, ‘it’s probably simplest if you come and see what we found.’
It was a warmer day th
an of late and the sunshine slanting in through the tent made it almost seem like spring had finally arrived.
Glasgow looked at the open manhole cover and the grubby metal rungs leading down the stained concrete shaft. He took his jacket off and laid it carefully over an electrical cable looped through the frame. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sharon Redman watching him, the hint of a sarcastic smile tugging at her lipsticked mouth.
‘You been down there, sergeant.’
‘Of course, sir,’ she said deadpan. ‘A couple of times.’
Jim Stanley stepped past Glasgow and lowered himself into the hole with a weary groan. ‘Here we go again.’
Glasgow followed him down. The shaft only dropped about fifteen feet. At the bottom was a small concrete chamber with an opening leading into the main sewer. A cable had been run from above and lights positioned at strategic intervals. Out of the sunlight it was suddenly cooler again, the damp air in the tunnel helping sap the warmth from his body. Glasgow shivered then nodded curtly at his colleague. ‘Let’s go.’
Stanley led the way and Glasgow followed cautiously. The main sewer was built of brick but stained shades of grey, green and brown. A steady current of water flowed along the main channel but it did not smell too offensive. Glasgow surmised it was probably mainly rainwater coming in through soakaways and storm drains. He kept his smartly polished brogues well away from its edge nevertheless. ‘So what can you tell me about the caller?’
‘Not much,’ grunted Stanley. ‘Wouldn’t give much detail. Wouldn’t say how he knew about the body.’
‘You hear the tape?’
‘Yes.’ Stanley came to a halt. They had reached a fork in the tunnel. A board lay across the channel.