by John Harvey
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! What fuckin’ good’s that? Sorry?” Angrily, she stirred sugar into her tea.
“Before he hit you,” Prior said, “was there anything special that set him off?”
“Ask his bloody psychiatrist, don’t ask me.”
“You didn’t say anything, do anything...?”
“I told you, didn’t I? He just went crazy. Lost it altogether. It were nothing to do with me, owt I said or anything.” Hand shaking, she lifted her cup. “I don’t know what it was got into him that night, but whatever it was he was clear off his head. Drugs, maybe, I don’t know.”
Prior knew the alcohol level in Dowland’s blood that evening had been quite high, not high enough in all probability to make him drunk; aspirin aside, there were no traces of any drug.
“You knew him, then?” Prior said. “You’d been with him before?”
“Once or twice, yes.”
“You knew what he liked.”
“Yeah.”
“Will you tell me?”
A smile twisted one side of Eve Ward’s mouth. “Get off on it, will you?”
“I doubt it.”
“What he liked was for you to hold him while he rubbed his face against your tits—cuddling, that’s what he called it. Suck on your nipples then he would, bite ’em, too, if he got the chance. Then if he hadn’t come already, he’d wank over you and then he’d cry. Daft, stupid sod, I couldn’t stand him. Used to give me the willies.”
“And this particular night, this didn’t happen? This was different?”
Eve Ward stirred some more sugar into her tea; she didn’t answer right away. “He started off the same, grabbing and moaning, and, I don’t know why, it just got to me, like I’d had enough of it, you know? And I asked him what’s the matter with him, he didn’t want to stick it up like any normal bloke? Was he queer or something? Another fuckin’ nance?”
“And that was when he hit you?”
“Yes. This bit of wood lying on the ground.”
“When you asked him if he was queer?”
“Queer, gay, yeah. I might’ve said gay, I dunno.”
“A nance? A nancy boy?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Eve, listen—you only think so? You’re not sure?”
“What d’you expect? It was five years ago, right? I’m trying to fuckin’ forget, not remember. Anyway, what difference’s it make what I called him? He tried to fuckin’ kill me, that’s what fuckin’ matters.”
Prior pushed her tea aside. A man in painter’s overalls came in and ordered a sandwich to take away. Glanced over toward the two women and said something that made the Rastafarian laugh.
“That’s got to be worth a bit, in’t it?” Eve said. “What I just told you. A tenner at least.”
Prior took a five-pound note from her bag and slid it beneath Eve Ward’s saucer. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”
“You know what?” Eve Ward said, when Prior was on her feet. “You ought to lock the bastard back up. Before he does it again. Next time whoever it is might not be so fuckin’ lucky.”
BEN LEONARD WAS A LIGHT-SKINNED BLACK MAN WITH A small gold ring in his left ear and bleached blond hair cut close to his head. He wore a blue and gold floral print shirt open over a purple T-shirt, black chinos, and red Camper shoes. He had been a community psychiatric nurse for seven years. If anyone ever queried the way he looked, the way he dressed, he grinned and said at least it made his clients seem a shade more sane.
“You know what,” he said, once Maureen Prior had sat on the polyurethane chair opposite his desk, “as dysfunctional families go, Dowland doesn’t touch top twenty. Not even near. One of those reality TV shows, Super Nanny, crap like that, he wouldn’t get close.
“Oh, his parents split up, sure, but not till he was nineteen, twenty. Three older brothers, a younger sister, all of them, as far as I can tell, out there holding down regular jobs, leading regular lives. I mean, they’re not Einsteins or anything, the closest any of them got to higher education’s a couple of NVQs, but they’ve all got wives, partners, kids of their own. The mother died a few years ago; his father still lives in the house in Kirkby where Richard and the others grew up.”
“He sees him?” Prior asked. “The father? There’s contact between them?”
“Not any more. Not since Richard went to prison.”
“And the mother died when?”
“Six years back.”
“A little before Richard attacked Eve Ward?”
Leonard’s laugh was rich and warm. “Who’s supposed to be the trick cyclist here, me or you?”
“You don’t think there’s a connection?”
“Of course there’s a connection. His mum dies in January, April he’s doing his damnedest to help poor Eve Ward shuffle off her mortal coil. At the funeral, apparently, he lost it big time, created this scene, wailing and screaming, like to have thrown himself into the grave if that’s what it had been. Right out of Hamlet. Took a couple of his brothers to calm him down.
“So, yes, he took his mother’s death badly, he was under a lot of strain, regret, remorse, who knows? And when he goes looking for his five minutes of solace and satisfaction, instead of being the compliant body he’s paid for, she turns on him, loses her temper, starts calling him names. Consequence: he loses control.”
“You think it could happen again?”
Leonard smiled. There was something about the way he smiled that edged her off-centre; something that went beyond what they were doing there, something personal. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “the more I do this job—the people I see, talk to, day in day out—the more amazed I am there are not more murders out there than there are.”
Leaning back, the smile still in his eyes, he ran a smooth hand down one side of his face and something inside Maureen Prior lurched just a little.
“So, yes,” Leonard said, “it could happen again, of course it could. If you ask me will it, what the chances are, as a professional man I’ll stonewall. Talk percentages at best. But as an individual, a man who likes a wager, a bet, I’d say no, chances are low. There were no similar incidents reported before this and, as far as we know, there’ve been none since. Whatever anger and frustration Richard’s carrying around inside, that’s where it stays. In fact you could say, pretty much, he’s got it under control.” Leonard smiled again, jokey this time, more of a grin. “Just don’t quote me, okay, when he goes gaga with an axe and whacks off somebody’s head.”
“All right,” Prior said. “Thanks.” Reaching down to the floor, she picked up her bag.
“How about you?” Leonard asked.
“What about me?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Seeing? You mean as in therapy? A psychoanalyst, something like that?”
“Oh, you seem wound a little tight, all right, maybe a few issues you need to resolve, but no, that’s not what I meant at all.”
Colour flared high on Maureen Prior’s cheeks, which were otherwise quite white.
“My business,” she said, “is exactly that. My business.” And with a swing of her bag, she moved toward the door.
“I’ll call you,” Leonard said.
But if Prior heard him, she gave no sign: just closed the door behind her, kept on walking, didn’t look back.
Chapter 21
1966
USUALLY, BUT NOT ALWAYS, THE SOFT TOYS THAT TENDED to be used most during Alice’s sessions with the younger children were piled back into two large plastic boxes that stood on the floor to the side of the cabinet of drawers. On these occasions, the boy had scarcely shown more than a cursory interest, dismissing them loudly, almost angrily, as babyish, as if resenting that they were there.
But on this particular afternoon the earlier session had slightly overrun and the toys—a motley collection of teddy bears in various shapes and sizes, soft-fringed lions, cats with sparkly collars, multicoloured elephants, and long-li
mbed monkeys—were in a haphazard jungle along the top of the cabinet when the boy entered.
Almost without acknowledging Alice, he turned his back on her and began to play with them, picking each one up and petting it, cuddling it against his chest and, sometimes, against his face and neck, before swapping it for the next.
Whatever remarks Alice made were ignored.
After each soft toy had been examined and fondled, the boy began to rearrange them into groups, first dividing them by kind—cat, elephant, lion and so on—and then by size, from the largest to the smallest.
“You do this with your toys at home?” Alice said.
Nothing.
“Give them a cuddle.”
“Shut up!” Hissed rather than spoken. The boy on his feet, looking at her, angry, pale skin stretched tight across his face.
“That’s what you do,” Alice said. “At home. Give them all a cuddle and then arrange them neatly, one by one.”
“I said fuckin’ shut up!”
“The lion, that’s your favourite. I can see.”
He was holding the lion against his chest, front paws splayed out on either side of his neck, red strip of tongue flopping from its mouth, the soft tangle of its mane pressed up against his mouth so that he seemed to be talking through it, his own tongue poking at the pale felt as he spoke.
“She made me give them away.”
“Your mother made you give them away.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t like you playing with them.”
“’Cause I was too old. That’s what she said.”
“When was this?”
“When I finished at the juniors. That’s when she made me give them all away. Said I didn’t need them any more. Said I had to grow up now. You’re not a little boy any more, that’s what she said.” He pulled the lion tighter than ever against his body. “It’s time for you to grow up. Be a man.”
Alice could see his little erection, pressing against the gray cotton of his trousers.
Chapter 22
THE TEAM HAD BEEN WORKING ON CLAIRE MEECHAM’S audit trail for twenty-four hours and there were still some thirty contacts to be monitored and checked.
Affectionate widowed male, 55, gray/fair hair, medium build, seeks female similar age or younger to share life with.
Not unattractive professional male, late 50s, enjoys cycling, walking and travelling, seeks lady, 35–55, for friendship, maybe more.
Male, early 60s but still young-at-heart, varied interests, seeks female companion for days out, evenings in, weekends away.
Remember Sean Connery and Audrey Hepburn? Robin Hood, straight arrow, long in the tooth but ever hopeful, seeks the perfect Maid Marian with whom to end his days.
Claire Meecham’s replies were brief and discreet: she was careful not to give away too much about herself, revealing no more than she felt necessary about her circumstances, keeping her address and the details of where she worked strictly private. Any requests for photographs were either ignored or shunted aside; anything resembling innuendo was given short shrift indeed. Arrangements to meet were always careful and exact, the rendezvous chosen in public spaces always—railway stations, galleries, theatre foyers—locations where there would always be plenty of other people around and that would afford her the opportunity to get a look at whoever she was meeting before they saw her. If necessary, she could fade further into the background and walk away unseen.
It seemed as if there had been occasions when this was what she had done.
Waited outside the Globe for more than an hour and a half. Where were you?
I feel I know the brickwork of the Lyric Theatre rather better than strictly necessary...
Next time you take it into your head to simply not turn up, at least have the decency to phone.
No excuses: no apologies.
Relationships that ended before they had begun.
Once started, however, it was not always so easy.
Maureen Prior read through the printout that had been handed to her for a second time and contacted Elder on his cell. He was in her office fifteen minutes later.
“Stephen Singer,” she said. “According to what he told you, the last time he saw Claire Meecham was February?”
“That’s right. He wanted to meet her again but she refused. Wrote to her, he said...”
“He had her address?”
“Apparently. He wrote and tried to get her to change her mind. No dice.”
“He did more than write,” Prior said, “look at these.” She swivelled the sheet of paper round on the desk.
There were no fewer than eleven messages sent during a period of seven days in early March; the gist of each was the same: Claire was being unreasonable, unfair, going back on what she’d said, reneging on her word. There was no sign that Claire had reacted with anything other than silence.
And then, a little over a week later, this: Claire, I’m so sorry for not respecting your wishes and arriving in the way I did, out of the blue. But it seemed the only way I could try and get you to see sense. I’m only grateful that after your initial, and very understandable anger, you have agreed to see things a little more my way. I am looking forward to hearing from you soon.
“He came here,” Elder said, surprised.
“Looks like it.”
“To the house, the bungalow.”
“Either that or where she worked.”
“It would be the bungalow. He talked her into letting him have her address, after all.”
“He’s been lying, then, hasn’t he? Lied to you and lied to me.”
“How many days after Singer’s last e-mail was it that she disappeared?”
Prior looked back at the printout. “Monday. Five days.”
Elder read the message. “One of the things she’d changed her mind about, you think it could have been meeting him that weekend?”
“Only one way to find out.” Prior looked at her watch. “There’s a train at ten-thirty. We can be in London not long after twelve.”
THEY TOOK A TAXI FROM ST. PANCRAS TO SOUTH END Green. The sky, a nondescript gray at the beginning of their journey, was now a speckled blue. The temperature was warmer by five degrees. As they turned off the main road, Elder spotted Singer locking the door to his house, then stooping to retie a shoe.
Surprise showed for a moment on his face, but nothing more.
“You’re here about poor Claire,” he said when they drew level.
Elder nodded.
“I read about it in the paper. What happened. Not that it said a great deal. A paragraph, little more. I was going to get in touch, ask, but then, well, I wasn’t sure...” He looked from one to the other. “Did it seem... I don’t know how best... did it seem as if she’d suffered a great deal?”
“I don’t think so,” Elder said. “Not as far as we can tell.”
“Thank heavens for that. For that at least.”
Singer cleared his throat. Prior stepped back into the road to let a young woman with a backpack jog past.
“Have you... have you caught whoever was responsible?” Singer asked.
“Not yet.”
“If there’s anything... well, I suppose, yes, that’s why you’re here. If there’s anything more I can do... I was going for a walk, a stroll on the Heath, but I expect you’d prefer to come inside?”
“We’ve been sitting for the best part of two hours,” Prior said. “Let’s walk.”
THE PATH LED DOWN TOWARD TWO PONDS AND THEN passed between them, widening as it rose gradually between a ragged avenue of spindly hawthorn trees, tall grass, and nettles thick around their roots, cow parsley standing waist high: the scent of May blossom sweet in the air.
Where the path opened out, the land pushed up more steeply toward a small crowd of people gathered at the summit, staring out across the city, bright-coloured kites flying high above their heads.
Prior pointed to an empty bench on the side of the hill, she and Elder positioning the
mselves so that Singer sat between them.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Singer said. “All this open space. Beautiful. I never tire of it, you know. There’s something about it that’s different, every day.”
He was looking at Elder, but it was Prior who spoke. “You lied to us,” she said.
Singer turned his head, mouth open, ready to protest.
Prior didn’t allow him the time. “I wrote to her, you said, asking her to change her mind. No more e-mails, just letters.”
“And that’s true,” Singer said. “I did write, several times.”
“No more e-mails.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And it was a lie.”
Singer looked at the ground.
“Wasn’t it? A lie.”
“Yes.”
“But why? Why lie about that?”
“I... I wasn’t thinking. I forgot.”
“I find that,” Prior said, “a little difficult to believe.”
Singer shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
“And there’s another explanation,” Prior said. “You must have thought there was a chance we’d find the letters, so you had to admit to that. But the e-mails you might have assumed she would have wiped.”
“Yes, yes,” Singer stammered, “I suppose that’s true. But I didn’t want you to think... Claire’s disappearance, that I’d had anything to do with whatever might have happened.”
“What did you think had happened?” Prior asked.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Of course, I thought—you do—things you read, almost every day now, in the news. I’d thought it might be something terrible... but I didn’t know.”
“And you didn’t see her that weekend?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t see her at all?”