Keep Me Alive

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘Trish Maguire?’

  She looked up to see a tall man with grey hair and a face that looked far kinder than she’d have expected of anyone with any kind of responsibility at the Mercury.

  ‘Yes. You must be Nick Wellbeck.’

  ‘I am.’

  She poured him a glass of wine and thanked him for coming, adding, ‘Clare Blake told me that you were the only editor with the guts to go to her brother’s funeral. That’s why I thought you’d be the best person to talk to now.’

  He sniffed the wine, then drank a little, watching her all the time, as though probing her expression for signs of sincerity.

  ‘So what do you think Jamie was doing under that meat lorry if he wasn’t trying to kill himself?’ he asked at last.

  Trish put forward a few theories, adding, ‘I know there are security cameras outside the abattoir because I saw them there, but I don’t have any way of finding out whether they were working that night. I thought you might—’

  ‘They were working,’ he said. ‘They always are, twenty-four seven. Anyone known to be involved in killing animals needs good security, but Smarden couldn’t afford to have people watching the monitors all the time, which is why no one noticed that the parked lorries completely blocked the camera’s view of the relevant part of the forecourt.’

  ‘Shit,’ Trish said, thinking: so you’ve been making enquiries, have you?

  ‘As you say. They tracked Jamie’s car arriving and clearly recorded the number plate, but very little more. He wasn’t particularly visible behind the wheel, but it was clear there was no passenger, and there was no sign of anyone else around on foot that night.’

  ‘That’s something,’ Trish said. ‘But if the lorries blocked the camera’s sight lines, anything could have happened behind them.’

  ‘True. But with no films, no evidence, and not even a body any more, there’s no way anyone will ever know what it was or be able to prove it. I assumed you had something from another angle. I didn’t realize you were just fishing when we spoke.’

  She was surprised he didn’t sound angrier. In his place she’d have been furious. He reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses before looking round the room.

  ‘This takes me back. I haven’t been in here for years, but it was our local in the old days.’

  ‘I know. Did Jamie ever drink in here with you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘So you were friends, just as Clare told me?’

  He looked across the table, and Trish realized why he wasn’t angry. He hadn’t come for information about what Jamie could have been doing outside the abattoir. All he wanted was release from the fear that he might have pushed a friend into suicide. She could understand that. One of her neighbours in halls had hanged herself while they were both in their second year at university. They hadn’t been close friends, and Trish had had no warning of what the woman planned to do, but she’d still felt guilty for not having intervened to save her. Even now, nearly twenty years later, the memory could make her heart race and her palms sweat.

  ‘Yes, we were friends,’ Wellbeck said. He drank again. ‘But we fell out over a story he faked. He couldn’t forgive me for pulling it, and I couldn’t forgive him for making me do it.’

  ‘You cut him right out of your life, just for that?’

  ‘“Just”?’ Now Wellbeck was angry. ‘There’s no bloody “just” about it. Invention is the one unforgivable sin in any investigative reporter.’ His face had set like cement. There was nothing kind or sad about it now. He drained his glass, then refilled it for the second time.

  ‘How d’you know he faked it?’

  ‘Because he had nothing to give us to support what he’d written when the lawyers asked for it. No documentary evidence. No identity for the source he’d claimed he was quoting.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have been protecting the source?’

  ‘No.’ Wellbeck had put down his empty glass and was examining a hangnail, so Trish couldn’t see his eyes. ‘At the paper we’re used to dealing with anonymous informants. It happens all the time. We know how to protect them, and the journalists who quote them. Jamie had no reason to refuse to give us the name. The fact he never did, even when he must’ve understood what he’d done to his career, has to mean there’d never been a name to give.’

  ‘What was the story about?’

  ‘Meat, of course. Infected meat. Jamie hardly ever wrote about anything else.’ Wellbeck left his nail alone and reached for the bottle again. ‘He’d been after one particular farmer for years. The story was about how the bloke was regularly selling dangerously diseased animals to—’

  ‘The abattoir where he was found dead?’ Trish said quickly. ‘Smarden Meats?’

  ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen so many coincidences these last few years that I’ve come to expect them everywhere. And dread them.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry this time. The slaughterhouse he wrote about was up north somewhere, and tied in with the head of a local authority central purchasing department. He was responsible for ordering all the foodstuffs for schools, old-people’s homes, and so on.’

  Trish thought she knew what was coming now. The Mercury had always had it in for corrupt councils, particularly if they were dominated by the Left.

  ‘Jamie’s article alleged that this farmer from the Hampshire borders was sending meat from diseased animals up north to sell cheaply to the central purchasing department. It was a scam that saved his vets’ bills, brought him in a little profit, and balanced the council’s books.’

  ‘And who cared if the school children and old people got ill?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Wellbeck shot Trish a tight smile. ‘It would have been a great story, just up our street – if only it’d been true.’

  A new party arrived, four men and one woman, and looked nervously around. One of the men pointed to an empty group of chairs, but the atmosphere was too daunting for the rest. One said something about a pub and they turned tail.

  ‘How did he suggest they’d got away with it?’ Trish asked when the door had shut behind them again. ‘I know record keeping has been tightened up a lot, but didn’t livestock have to be registered even then?’

  ‘Can’t remember the details. I have a feeling Jamie claimed the paperwork had been doctored. And in those days farmers were allowed to bury dead livestock on their own farms. Maybe that’s what he said he’d done.’

  ‘But Jamie didn’t produce any evidence of that? Or the doctored paperwork?’

  Wellbeck grimaced. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘No, then.’

  ‘Exactly. Even one supporting document would have made all the difference. But on this story – unlike all the others he’d ever written – Jamie was like a lizard: every time we thought we’d got a grip on him, he’d shed his tail and whisk away into hiding. We were left with the equivalent of a bit of worthless shrivelled skin.’ He drank again. ‘Even that was better than what might have happened.’

  Trish finished the wine in her glass too. ‘Which was?’

  Wellbeck looked at her, then at the bottle, then back at her. He shrugged. ‘What does it matter now, six years on? The farmer had a stroke the day we’d been planning to run the story. Can’t you just see our rivals’ headlines if we’d gone ahead?’

  ‘Daily Mercury hounds honest farmer to death, you mean?’ she said, trying not to see the coincidence that was hitting her in the face. She’d always known there would be one somewhere. This one could explain a lot. Nick Wellbeck might be certain the story had been faked; she wasn’t so sure. Her mind began to spin faster, throwing up ideas she couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

  Wellbeck laughed, so she must have hidden her feelings well enough. ‘I think they’d have found a wittier twist than that. It’s a rare talent, writing front-page tabloid headlines. Shall I get another of these?’ He tapped the bottle.

  Trish shook her head. ‘I’ve had more than eno
ugh, and there’s still at least a glassful left.’ She poured it for him and made her excuses.

  Within minutes, she was out of the door and hurrying across the bridge, hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. She didn’t want to think about Jamie Maxden or the Hampshire farmer who’d supposedly peddled diseased meat and died of a stroke six years ago. Or the real reason why Will had hit Jamie Maxden in Susannah’s bedroom. All she wanted now was food. The El Vino biscuits had been the first things she’d eaten since breakfast and they hadn’t been nearly enough.

  Tomorrow, when she’d got used to the idea, she could phone Susannah for confirmation, but until then she wasn’t going to let herself think about anything. There were sums here she didn’t want to do. One way of avoiding them for a while would be to visit Caro. Maybe food could wait.

  When Trish reached the hospital, she found that Caro had been moved again. She was sitting up and sipping water from a beaker. There were no longer any drip tubes attached to her arms. A towering bunch of roses and delphiniums soared up from her bedside locker.

  ‘You look great,’ Trish said. ‘And those are fantastic flowers.’

  ‘Aren’t they? Andrew Stane brought them today.’

  ‘What’s the news of Kim?’

  ‘Not a lot. She’s settling with her foster mother, apparently, but still having nightmares most nights. She wakes the whole house with her screaming. And she’s clammed up again. Neither the psychiatrist nor the social workers have managed to persuade her to say anything else. You were unique in getting through to her, Trish.’

  ‘How does Mrs Critch cope with the screaming?’

  Caro wagged her head from side to side in a gesture Trish knew well. It wasn’t encouraging.

  ‘So far she’s bearing up, and spooning in the Calpol, but Andrew says he’s afraid that if Kim doesn’t let her sleep a night through soon, her benevolence is going to crack.’

  ‘Like Crossman’s,’ Trish said grimly. ‘I’m sure now that it was the screaming that got to him. I keep wondering what it was he threatened to do to the baby when Kim woke him in the night.’

  ‘Why are you so sure he did? Isn’t making her stand naked on the box at the end of his bed enough?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Horrible though that is, I don’t think it’s enough to explain the intensity of her terror.’

  ‘You may be right. But whatever else there was, it’s over now. Kim’s safe, Trish. Thanks to you. You can stop worrying about her. And the unit is keeping a very close eye on the baby.’

  Trish couldn’t stop herself sharing some of Pete Hartland’s outrage that no one was going to able to punish Crossman for what he’d done. She hated the thought that Kim was going to have to live with her terror. There were people who thought that counselling for post-traumatic stress only made the condition worse, but she still believed that children needed to talk about what had been done to them.

  ‘How’s Pete Hartland?’ she asked and wished she hadn’t as the anxiety pulled at Caro’s face and made her look suddenly twice her age.

  ‘He terrifies me, Trish. I’ve made everyone in the unit promise to keep an eye on him too, and so far he hasn’t done anything. But he talks more wildly every time I see him.’

  ‘I did my best.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t mean to criticize you. I’m really grateful that you tried to help. I wish I could get him sent on leave, but I’ve tried that and they won’t wear it. With me out of action, there aren’t enough bodies in the unit as it is.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘As soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to have to find a way to get him transferred. Child protection is all wrong for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Caro shook her head. More professional secrets, Trish thought. Then Caro said despairingly, ‘The trouble is, they’ve seen how good he is at it and haven’t understood that’s because he minds too much. They can’t see the danger.’

  *

  Trish wrenched open the door of the freezer, hoping there might be something she could thaw in the microwave. The frost-free shelves were much fuller than she remembered. Rootling through the neat packages, she found something labelled ‘seafood pancakes’ in George’s handwriting, along with instructions to microwave them for five minutes, then rest them, then give them another two-minute blast.

  They hadn’t been there the last time she’d looked, which must have been the day she’d stowed away a boxful of Snickers ice-cream bars for David at the beginning of the school holidays. There were other unfamiliar wrapped packages, too. She took out several and saw a neat label on each one, naming the food inside and giving instructions for heating or cooking it. George must have been so sure she’d starve without him that he’d had a marathon cooking session and secretly filled her freezer before he left the country.

  Once that would have exasperated her; she would have taken it as a signal of control or reproof or something. Now she was just grateful. And hungrier than ever.

  She was halfway through the second dill-flavoured fish pancake when the door bell rang. Since it wasn’t likely to be Liz again, and nearly all her friends were on holiday, it was probably someone selling low-grade dusters for ludicrous prices or perhaps a charity collector. Either way, she wasn’t going to interrupt herself to answer. She sat tight and forked up another huge mouthful.

  ‘Trish!’ She recognized Will’s voice at once. ‘Are you there?’

  She swallowed in a hurry, but half the food stuck in her throat.

  ‘Trish? Trish, I need you.’

  Not again, she thought, knowing she’d never be able to resist that particular plea. She told herself that whatever the significance of Nick Wellbeck’s information, whatever the justification for Petra’s warning, Will was still the man she’d instantly liked and wanted to protect. But she couldn’t move.

  ‘Trish.’ He’d pushed open the letterbox now. Even though he wouldn’t be able to see her, he’d see the lights and smell the food and know she was there.

  He’d broken a man’s neck. He might have killed a woman. And he’d lied to her. Could she persuade him that she still believed in him? If not, it would be better to pretend she was out, however unconvincingly, than let him in and risk provoking him.

  But what if he were innocent? With his sensitivity to criticism, he’d know why she hadn’t opened her door. What would that do to a man so raw, so attuned to the slightest hint of dislike or contempt?

  ‘Trish, please.’

  ‘Coming,’ she called as soon as she’d got the mouthful down. ‘Sorry, I was choking.’

  The latch seemed stickier than usual, but she managed to turn it eventually and opened the front door far wider than she wanted.

  Will had one arm in plaster and several bits of transparent wound tape across abrasions on his face. His bottom lip was swollen as though one of his teeth had been driven into it, and he had a black eye. He was also leaning against the wall, a stick dangling from his good arm. Looking down, she saw that his left ankle was plastered too. She stood aside to let him in.

  ‘It’s wonderful that they’ve let you go,’ she said, struggling for the right amount of enthusiasm, and not specifying whether it was the hospital or the police she meant. ‘Fantastic. Come on in and I’ll heat you up some food.’

  ‘Can I really come in?’ He sounded as uneasy and unthreatening as ever.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God.’ He stumbled as he crossed the threshold and landed in her arms, as the stick clattered to the ground. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d—’

  She had to hold him for a moment to stop him crashing to the floor. Swaying under his weight, feeling the thud of his overstimulated heart all through her body, she used both hands to get him upright and balanced, before bending to pick up his stick. Touching him made her teeth clamp tight against each other.

  ‘Here,’ she said, making herself relax. ‘Come and sit at the table, if you can. Pour yourself a glass of wine, and I’ll go and get you some food. OK?’

  He w
as wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, as though something had hurt so much in the fall that it had made them water.

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  It was a relief to be out of sight in the kitchen. She could hear him lumbering around the table and manoeuvring his body and the stick so that he could lower himself into a chair. She still didn’t know what to think, or whether to ask him questions now. All she knew for certain was that he couldn’t do her any physical harm in this condition.

  Later, when he had eaten and they were sitting over the wine and a bowl of rich, dark, imported cherries, in an atmosphere heavy with suspicion and fear, she asked him how he felt. It was a silly question, but someone had to say something.

  ‘Like shit,’ Will said. He let his eyelids lift and looked directly at her.

  Trish had never seen his face so hard. Even when he’d been worried or frightened, he’d been able to produce a smile of sorts. Now, it seemed all masks were off.

  ‘The police have said they’ll want to talk to me again,’ he went on, ‘but at the moment they seem prepared to believe I didn’t kill Mandy.’

  Trish fought down the question that surged up her throat, asking instead, ‘Who was she, Will?’

  ‘A girlfriend? A source? A threat? I don’t know,’ he said, looking away, towards the window that framed the tower of the cathedral. Soon the light would go, but for now it was washing the stonework in a warm, golden glow. ‘That’s the trouble. I just don’t know.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘When I went to Ivyleaf in search of information about the sausages. She’s … She was the receptionist there.’

  ‘And you became friends?’ Trish suggested when he left it at that.

  ‘More than that.’ He looked back at her. A faint flush seeped along his cheekbones. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first, but she … she took me to bed. I’m sorry, Trish … But that’s what happened. She seemed so sweet, so cuddly, that I felt awful for trying to get information out of her. Now it looks as if she was at it, too. All the time.’