Hiding Game, The

by Brindle, J. T.

  ‘I thought there might be.’ He sounded dejected.

  Without turning round, she said softly, ‘I’m sorry, and I wish there was any other way, but…’ she swallowed hard, ‘I really don’t think we can work together any more.’ With the truth out in the open, she turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry, Steve. I’ll give you a first-class reference. You’ve earned that, and a month’s pay in lieu of notice.’

  Shocked, he stared at her with his mouth open. ‘You want me out of here altogether, is that what you’re saying? You can’t mean it, surely. And even if you did, where would you find a replacement by the end of the week?’ His face stiffened. ‘Unless you’ve already found somebody to take my place.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t, but I will. If it comes to it, I can always get a temporary driver.’ She didn’t want him to think he was indispensable, even if he was. ‘We’ve had one before, when Jason was off, and there was no problem.’

  ‘Please, Kerry, think what you’re doing. You and me, we belong together. I love you… I thought you loved me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what either of us feel.’ Being alone with him like this was a mistake. She began to falter. ‘I don’t want you to go, and I don’t want you to stay. It’s too much of a temptation – for both of us.’

  In two strides he was across the room, his hands on her shoulders. ‘Come away with me,’ he begged. ‘Sell up here, and I’ll take care of you. Bring the kids too if that’s what you want, but don’t turn me away. Not after what we’ve been to each other.’

  ‘It’s too late for all that.’ She felt suddenly threatened. ‘Don’t cause trouble, Steve. Please, just accept things the way they are.’

  ‘I can’t.’ His hands gripped her shoulders so hard, the pain made her wince.

  Steeling herself, Kerry told him in a firm, quiet voice, ‘Look, Steve, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. We had a wonderful relationship, but we both knew the time would come when it would have to finish. That time is now. What we had is over, that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘You never loved me, did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You used me!’ Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘You never loved me.’

  Kerry shook her head. ‘That’s not true. I did love you… I do love you. But there are all kinds of love. Some last, some don’t.’

  For a long, agonising moment he stared into her eyes, a parade of emotions flowing between them. Suddenly, in a move that took her by surprise, he grabbed her to him and kissed her, a long, passionate kiss that reminded her of what she and Steve had before, and what she may never have with Mike.

  To the watcher who stood on the outside looking in, it seemed as if she was willing him on. ‘Bad woman!’ The harsh whisper rippled through the quiet evening. ‘Bad, bad woman!’

  ‘What was that?’ Breaking from Steve’s arms, Kerry shrank against the wall. ‘Did you see it?’

  Confused, Steve followed her gaze to the window. ‘What? What did you see?’

  ‘A shape… a shadow. I’m not sure.’ Guilt shivered through her. ‘Someone’s watching us. Please, you’d better leave now.’

  Squaring his shoulders, he told her, ‘I’m not going anywhere until you see sense. Just now, when we kissed, I know you wanted it as much as me.’

  Clenching her fists, she said through gritted teeth, ‘Just leave me alone!’

  ‘Never!’ Wrapping his hands round her small fists, he kissed each one. ‘I’m going outside to make sure no one’s out there, and then I’m coming back.’ He grinned. ‘You won’t get rid of me so easily.’

  Realising he would not be reasoned with, Kerry waited until he was out of the room and down the stairs before grabbing her bag and belongings.

  Softly, she went down after him. As he went out the front, she went out the back. Her car was parked by the back door. Quickly she got inside, started the engine and was on her way down the road before he even realised.

  ‘Damn the man!’ she muttered as she drove. ‘He won’t give me any peace. He’ll never accept that it’s over between us.’

  Distraught that she had got away, Steve sat down at the desk, head low and eyes closed. ‘I can’t let her go,’ he murmured. ‘She still loves me, I know it.’ Alone and unsure, he began to cry; softly like a man cries, angry and ashamed at the same time.

  He laid his head down and let his emotions run free, until after a while he was exhausted. ‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll be all right tomorrow. She’ll see how wrong she’s been.’

  At the top of the stairs he switched off the light to Kerry’s office. As he turned to close the door, he thought he saw a shadow. ‘Who’s there?’ The silence was intimidating. He switched on the light but could see nothing. Peering downstairs, he searched the ground floor with his eyes but could see nothing untoward. ‘She’s got me jittery now.’

  He waited a moment, then stepped forward, beginning his descent to the ground floor.

  He didn’t hear the intruder. He couldn’t know the hatred in that intruder’s heart. He didn’t see the arms that stretched out, nor the hands that reached to spread themselves on his back.

  All he knew, as he tumbled to his death, was the violence that sent him downwards. And the face of his murderer as it stared down on him, a kindly, smiling face.

  And those wicked eyes. Alive with madness.

  Sergeant Madison was convinced. ‘It’s Peterson all right,’ he insisted. ‘Think about it, sir.’ Making sure he got his facts right, he paced the floor, running it through his own mind before putting his ideas to the inspector. ‘It all fits together. The first murder was that of Eddie Johnson, and we know that he was Rosie Sharman’s boyfriend.’

  ‘So?’ Inspector Webb was new to this division, and if there was anything he hated more than coming in at the tail end of an unsatisfactory investigation, it was raking over cold ashes.

  ‘Well, we also know that Rosie Sharman was seen with Mike Peterson at the public house the day the storm sent him over the edge.’

  ‘I see. And because both Eddie Johnson and Peterson knew Rosie Sharman, you think you can tie Peterson in with Johnson’s murder?’

  ‘If both men were attracted to the same woman, yes, it’s a possibility.’

  ‘Have you read the notes on this case?’

  ‘Over and over.’ Until his eyes were red and his mind was dizzy.

  ‘Good. Then you must know that at the time of Eddie Johnson’s murder, Mike Peterson was still in the hospital.’

  ‘We only have the nurse Alice Henshaw’s word for that: nobody else saw him for at least an hour either side of the murder. He could have got out of the hospital, committed the murder and got back before anybody realised.’

  ‘Are you saying the nurse was lying?’

  ‘Mistaken, maybe.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Then she lied.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I’m still working on that one.’ It was a puzzler. ‘Maybe she was soft on Peterson, and turned a blind eye when he wanted to go missing.’

  ‘And what about motive?’

  ‘Sharman and Peterson might have had something going, and Eddie Johnson found out. According to those who knew him, he was a violent, moody sort of a bloke. A man capable of murder. It’s likely he was in a jealous rage… looking to kill Peterson. That could account for him having the knife when he was found.’

  ‘It couldn’t account for him being dead when he was found though, could it?’

  ‘Peterson might have had the same idea. He went out looking for Eddie Johnson and, if I’m right, he found him and killed him.’

  ‘If any of that were true, it would have been uncovered during the investigation.’

  ‘They didn’t dig deep enough.’

  ‘You’re skating on thin ice, Madison. What has all this got to do with this latest death anyway?’

  ‘Peterson keeps turning up like a bad penny, and I’m not just talking about the Eddie Johnson killing
. When Dr Carlton was bumped off, once again Mike Peterson is somewhere in the picture. He was Dr Carlton’s patient for three years. That man must have known more about the workings of Peterson’s mind than anybody else.’ Anticipating the inspector’s objections, Madison hurried on, ‘He might have discovered that Peterson had murdered Eddie Johnson. Or maybe Peterson even confided in him. It’s possible, a doctor is like a priest, oath of secrecy and all that. So we have murders, and two links with Peterson, and both murders unsolved.’ It gnawed at his peace of mind. ‘Now we come to the latest death, Steve Palmer.’

  ‘I know, I know. That makes the third link with Peterson.’ Inspector Webb realised he was beginning to think like the sergeant.

  ‘And, in my opinion, the strongest link of all,’ said Madison. ‘Steve Palmer worked closely with Peterson’s wife all the time he was in the hospital. Imagine how he must feel, knowing his wife is seeing another man day after day, year in, year out. And Palmer was unmarried and a good-looker.’ He paused, his thoughts rolling back over the years. ‘Do you remember how she looked when we questioned her… nervous… glancing at Peterson out of the corner of her eye. I said at the time she looked guilty as sin.’

  ‘So you think Peterson found out they were carrying on and killed him?’

  ‘It’s another possibility, that’s all I’m saying. Who could blame her if she was tempted to find comfort in the arms of another man? If she did, it’s possible that Peterson found out and went after Palmer.’

  Webb shook his head. ‘But Palmer’s death was an accident.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t go along with the coroner’s findings, that he fell down the stairs. He knew those stairs like the back of his own hand – that’s what the women said, and they should know because they watched him run up and down them every day. Even Peterson’s wife had to agree that it seemed unlikely he should have lost his footing.’

  ‘There’s no evidence that Peterson’s wife and Steve Palmer were having an affair.’

  ‘I’m still working on it.’

  ‘Well, when you have hard proof, I’ll back you all the way. But you know as well as I do, we can’t make a case on possibilities and theories.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When Inspector Webb left, Madison sat at his computer and called up one file after another. Finally, he came to Rosie Sharman. His eyes narrowed. ‘Now there’s a mystery. Never found. Never questioned.’

  After a while, he switched off the computer and sat there thinking and wondering. ‘She must be out there somewhere. And if I’m right, she must know something. Or why did she go into hiding? And for so long.’ His mind was made up. ‘Find Rosie Sharman,’ he told himself, ‘and I guarantee she will lead you right back to Mike Peterson!’

  12

  Even in January, the city of Dublin was magical.

  On this Friday evening, everywhere was lit like Christmas all over again; every window was plastered with ‘SALE’ signs, and every shop filled with people. Some were spending, some browsing, others just wanting to get out of the house for a while. Ordinary, God-fearing people, with ordinary ambitions and ordinary lives.

  But there was nothing ordinary about the middle-aged couple who entered a small café in the cobbled side street.

  If every face told a story, their faces told of torment, and fear. The man was small and shrivelled before his time; the woman was haggard though her strong, classical features betrayed a certain faded beauty. They seemed nervous, occasionally glancing about, as though worried someone might recognise them.

  Hurrying into the café, they chose a table far from the glare of the street, somewhere they could talk and not be overheard.

  No one noticed them. No one cared. How could they know that this middle-aged pair were a couple in hiding, in fear for their lives? Dressed in warm coats and gloves, there was nothing special about the pair save for their quiet, sad faces, and the troubled eyes that hardly dared look up.

  ‘What can I get youse?’ asked the waitress in her broad Irish accent. Red-haired and green-eyed, she had a smile to charm the fairies. The woman had just laid a single page from an outdated newspaper on the table. The waitress’s curious gaze was drawn to a certain article outlined in vivid red pencil.

  The woman noticed her interest and quickly folded the page and returned it to her shopping bag.

  ‘Poor devil!’ said the waitress. ‘Imagine dying from falling down a flight of stairs. Would yer believe I used to run up and down the cellar here in high heels. Sure I musta been mad!’ She pointed to the flat, dark shoes adorning her feet. ‘They’re ugly, so they are, but it’s better than ending up with me neck broke, don’t yer think?’

  ‘Very sensible,’ the woman replied and was relieved when the girl took their order and hurried away.

  The man was angry. ‘What in God’s name are you doing, carrying that article about with you and laying it out for everybody to see?’

  ‘I have to keep them close,’ she replied simply, ‘so we never forget what danger we’re in.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’

  Glancing about, she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve got them all here.’

  Disbelief flitted over his features. ‘Good God, woman!’ he groaned. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Please, Tom, don’t be angry,’ she whispered.

  Quietly now, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry.’ If she had gone mad, he couldn’t blame her. There were times when he thought they might both be better off locked away in some secure place. Or six feet under the ground. But he needn’t worry on that score, he thought caustically, because the way things were, the murderer might come for them at any time.

  ‘Two teas, piping hot.’ The waitress placed the tea before them. ‘Would you like anything else?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got some fresh doughnuts, and a slice or two left of the chocolate gateau.’

  When they declined, she went away, softly singing.

  ‘Give me the paper.’ Once more he held out his hand. ‘I won’t lose it,’ he promised. ‘It’ll be safe with me.’

  ‘I’ve got them all,’ she repeated.

  He looked at her, thinking what a small, pitiful thing she was when only a few years ago she had been a strapping, handsome woman, with a sense of humour and a quick, inquisitive mind. But that was before the monster showed its true face.

  ‘Can’t I keep them?’ she quietly pleaded. ‘So I don’t forget.’

  The sigh came from deep down. ‘Aw, Emma, what am I to do with you?’

  ‘Love me,’ she murmured, ‘like you used to, when we were first married.’

  ‘When we were first married,’ he echoed. It seemed a lifetime ago, when in fact it was only, what? Twenty-eight years. Yes, he had loved her then. And he loved her now, and when he spoke, the love showed in his voice. ‘Keep them hidden,’ he told her softly. ‘It wouldn’t do for people to know you carried such things with you.’

  Smiling, she secured the page and closed her bag. Then she held out her hand and he placed his over it. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, Tom?’ she asked.

  Tom nodded. ‘That’s why we moved away.’ He dared not promise they would be safe. How safe could they be against the cunning mind of a murderer?

  Thinking of the articles Emma carried with her, and the madness that pursued them, he grew restless. ‘I think we’d better go.’ He gulped his tea down. ‘Quickly, Emma. It’s getting late.’ While she finished her drink, he nervously took a long, official-looking white envelope out of his pocket.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

  ‘Just a bill,’ he lied. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ He carried it everywhere with him, just in case.

  The waitress returned. ‘Anything else?’

  He pulled out his wallet. ‘No, we’ll pay now,’ he said. ‘We’re in a hurry. We’ve got a bus to catch.’

  From the counter, the waitress watched them leave. ‘Such nice people,’ she told her colleague, ‘but they look worn out.�
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  A rush of customers kept her busy for a while. By the time she went to clear their table, they were long gone. ‘Oh, they’ve left something here!’ Rushing to the door, she glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of them now. She slipped the envelope into her apron pocket.

  At the counter, she mentioned it to her colleague. ‘I don’t know what to do with it.’

  ‘If it were me, I’d post it,’ she said. ‘It’s the only thing you can do.’

  ‘There’s no stamp on it.’

  ‘So put one on.’

  ‘What? They didn’t even leave a tip!’

  ‘Send it without a stamp.’ She grinned. ‘I often do that. Nobody ever makes me pay.’

  Intent on getting his beloved wife to safety, the man had not missed his letter. It was only one of many all the same, not to be posted, but kept safe, just in case.

  A short time later they boarded the bus back to the outskirts; at every stop along the way they peered out of the windows, searching for a certain face in the darkness. Praying they would never again have to look on it in the flesh.

  Their small, nondescript house was hidden down a narrow lane. It was their retreat, their ‘hidey-hole’. Here they could pretend the outer world and all its terrors did not exist. When the door was bolted, and the curtains closed against the shadows, they even dared to think they might be safe.

  Creatures of habit, their routine never varied.

  On entering the house, Emma would remain by the door while Tom did his rounds. First he searched in every cupboard and corner, under the bed, and even behind the curtains. That done, he would return downstairs to reassure Emma.

  While she went into the kitchen to make them a night-time drink, he would check that the alarm had not been tampered with in any way. The shopping was quickly packed away. After that, Tom would follow Emma up the stairs with the tray.

  The room where they slept was more like a sitting room than a bedroom, and it had an en suite bathroom. Two comfortable armchairs, a small round table, and a television on a small sideboard made the bedroom cosy and welcoming. The bed stood away from the window, in the darkest corner. It was a calculated precaution, like the many heavy bolts that had turned the house into a fortress, and the alarm which had cost them a small fortune to install.