by Chris Simms
It was possible she’d nodded off in the front room – even though, when that happened, the telly was normally on. The room was dark, but he could just make out her walking frame by the sofa. He started patting the wall for the light switch when the walkie-talkie on the hallway table gave a crackly hiss.
‘Sean?’
A jolt of adrenalin made his stomach lift. Stepping back, he scrabbled for the device and almost knocked it to the floor. ‘Mum, where are you?’
‘Upstairs.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
He placed a hand on the banister post and called up. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Don’t come up. Just … ring for an ambulance.’
He started climbing the stairs, now addressing the walkie-talkie. ‘What do you mean? Where are you?’
‘Sean … don’t …’
The stairlift was at the top. She was definitely up here, somewhere. He placed the walkie-talkie on the seat of the mechanized chair and looked about: the bathroom door was shut. ‘Mum?’
Her voice came from the other side, feeble and distressed. ‘I need you to call me—’
‘I’m right outside the door, Mum. What’s going on?’
‘I slipped, getting out of the bath.’
He brought his ear away from the painted wood. ‘You slipped? Are you hurt?’
‘No, I’m stuck.’
‘In the bath?’
‘I can’t lift myself out.’
‘I’ll open the—’
‘No! Just call for help.’
‘But I’m here, Mum. I can help.’
‘I don’t want your help!’ Anger and humiliation made her voice tremble. ‘I don’t want you to see me like this! I don’t want you to—’
He heard her sob and a lump rose in his throat.
‘Just call them, Sean. Please.’
SEVENTEEN
The paramedic’s meaty forearms bulged when he crossed his arms. ‘You’d be surprised. What would you say, Andy? Two or three a month?’
‘And then some!’ His colleague was down on one knee, packing items back into a large carry case. ‘They should carry a health warning, those things.’
The towel on Janet’s head resembled a large turquoise turban. ‘You read the ingredients and they sound so lovely.’
The paramedic who was standing gave a knowing nod. ‘Until you try getting up. Then all those lovely oils aren’t such good news.’
‘It’s the last bath bomb I ever buy,’ Janet announced. ‘And that’s a promise.’
‘Have you ever considered getting a bath seat fitted?’
She straightened the collar of her towelling bathrobe and scowled. ‘I’m not that much of an invalid, please.’
The paramedic cocked his head. ‘I didn’t say that, Mrs Blake.’
She batted a hand. ‘I’m not being serious. I don’t know … I thought maybe once I reached my eighties, not my fifties.’
‘Well, it’s something to consider. Or one of those sitting baths. The chair bit is part of the mould, and there are handles dotted about. Quite fancy one myself; sit there and read the papers.’
Sean could see his mum’s posture stiffen a fraction. She hated all the practical changes she’d had to make because of the incident that had nearly killed her. Every measure she took, she said once, felt like defeat.
‘Sure you don’t have time for a tea?’ Sean asked, pouring boiling water into the pot.
The paramedic who was kneeling looked up. ‘Bloody tempting, that. But we should go.’
His colleague regarded Janet. ‘Sure there’s no pain? No one’s going to mind giving you a swift check over.’
‘Saturday night in A&E?’ She smiled. ‘I’d rather not. Spent enough time in and out of there as a bobby.’
‘A bobby, hey? When were you in the job?’
Sean wondered if speaking in a calm and soothing way was a mandatory part of all paramedical training.
‘A few years back, now. I was in for almost twenty years.’
He whistled. ‘Some sentence.’
‘Some sentence, indeed.’ She nodded at Sean. ‘And now my son here is starting his. Just become a detective, he has. Not even—’
Sean jumped in before she could build up a head of steam. The pair of them would never escape. ‘We’d better let you get on.’
The zip closed on the carry case and the kneeling paramedic stood. ‘You’re right.’
‘Take care of yourself, Mrs Blake,’ the other one announced.
‘Don’t you worry about me.’
Sean showed them to the door, his voice dropping as they stepped past him. ‘Thanks for that.’
One of them paused. ‘Tough one, isn’t she?’
She makes out she is, he thought, returning his grin. ‘You could say that.’
When he wandered back into the kitchen, she’d lost a lot of her cheer.
‘You didn’t need to clean it, Sean,’ she said quietly, hardly able to meet his eyes.
He thought about entering the bathroom after the paramedics had washed her down and carried her through to her room. Fragments of faeces, bits of soap and the odd strand of hair had clung stubbornly to the sides of the bath. He’d scrubbed quietly at it with a cloth the entire time they were in the next room. ‘It took all of two minutes.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘What’s the problem? I can’t see any—’
‘No son should have to clear up his own mother’s …’ the sound of an s struggled to escape her lips as she searched for another word. ‘You know what.’
He took his time pouring their tea. Her incontinence issues were what she found hardest to deal with. Since the car had crushed her pelvis and shattered her right leg, she’d only been caught out twice, and never in public. At least, not as far as he knew. ‘You wiped up plenty of my crap in your time.’
She propped her head in her hands, sighed deeply then gazed at him over her knuckles. ‘Oh, Sean. You’re … you’re … I don’t want this for you.’
He placed the cups on the table and sat down beside her. ‘What’s that?’
‘This.’ She raised her hands and he saw how close she was to crying. ‘You, in on a Saturday night, taking care of me. Sean, you’re twenty-two years old and you’ve never had a proper girlfriend. Because of me.’
‘It’s not because of you.’
‘It is. I hobble you. That’s what I do: hobble you.’
‘You and your crossword clues.’
She laughed through her nose and immediately plucked a tissue from her sleeve. ‘Don’t joke. It’s not funny.’
He understood what she meant. All his teenage years had been spent hurrying home from school, his sense of anxiety not subsiding until he could see once more that she was safe.
She placed a hand against his face. ‘Look at you.’
He tilted his head away, mock alarm in his eyes. ‘Please, Mum. Don’t start on about the—’
‘I will! Black hair and brooding looks. Winning combination.’
‘I’ve never heard you say that before.’
‘It’s true.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘So, what’s been happening? The local news mentioned an arrest …’
‘Yeah, they cornered Cahill in a McDonald’s of all places. Can you believe it?’
‘Actually, I can.’
‘What, him risk everything for a Big Mac?’
‘Him behaving like a plonker. Most criminals aren’t really that clever, Sean. That’s why they’re criminals. Force of habit, staying with what they know: they don’t often stray far.’
‘Well, he got four shots of the Taser.’
‘The one that was needed and three more for luck?’
He held up a thumb. ‘Correct.’
‘Has questioning started to take place?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what were you doing today?’
‘Well …’ He tried to phrase his reply to make him sound an integral part of the investigation. ‘Once word came in Cahil
l was in custody, a lot of the focus turned to the victims.’
‘Still searching for what connects them to him?’
‘Yup.’
She looked surprised. ‘What did they have you working on?’
‘Helping to analyse the three women’s movements during their last twenty-four hours.’
‘Analyse?’
‘Comparing them, looking for anything to suggest they were working together.’
‘You mean phone contact?’
‘I did make a start on their phone records.’
‘Surely that’s already been done?’
‘I’m double-checking. In case something was missed.’
She slid him a dubious glance. ‘OK. Anything of note?’
‘Mum, you know discussing the specifics of an—’
‘Oh come off it. I’m police, too.’
‘Were,’ he corrected.
She glared briefly. ‘You know what I mean. How am I going to compromise anything? Besides, a fresh pair of eyes and all that …’
He sighed. ‘No phone contact between them. Not on the phones we’ve recovered, anyway.’
‘And each victim’s movements have been mapped by triangulating their phone’s signal?’
‘Of course. Nothing overlapped.’
‘And the phone calls of all three have been plotted on a timeline?’
‘Yes. Victim one: routine was normal. She finished work at the usual time, caught her regular bus home, stayed in for the evening. Similar story with victim two: jumped on the free city centre shuttle bus to work, spent the day in the office, back home to Deansgate, went for some food, nipped into a wine bar. Victim three turned up for work, ate lunch at her desk, travelled back home to her new flat.’
‘They all had jobs, then?’
‘Yes. Variety of work. Zero-hour contract in a shoe shop, full-time professional and a call-centre operative.’
‘How close were their places of work?’
‘They weren’t. Not walking distance during a lunch break, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Janet stared off into space and, for a while, the only sound was the tick of the kitchen clock.
‘You didn’t mention how victim number three got home,’ she announced, turning to him.
‘Didn’t I?’
‘No. Victims one and two: bus. Victim three?’
‘Tram. All of two stops.’
‘Buses and trams.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘No idea. I doubt it. How they came to be involved with Cahill—’
‘Is something only he can answer,’ Sean said.
Janet nodded. ‘And you’ll find that out tomorrow, I’m sure.’
‘Let’s hope.’ He patted his thighs. ‘Right, bed for me.’ As he got to his feet, he heard her murmur something. ‘What was that, Mum?’
She gave a minute shake of the head. ‘Sorry?’
‘You said something.’
‘Did I? Thinking aloud, that’s all.’
‘What was it?’
She breathed in deeply. ‘It would be very interesting to see the actual transcripts of their calls. I know how it works: so far, everyone’s been instructed to look at who the victims spoke to, yes?’
Sean nodded.
‘But no one will have been paying much attention to what they said. Not properly, anyway.’
He rarely got a sense of how keenly she missed her job, but this was one of those times. ‘You think that could be worth it?’
‘Could be. Who knows?’
He studied her for a moment longer, wondering if he could sneak any transcripts out for her to look at.
Once he’d closed his bedroom door, he stood in the centre of the room and listened. She said she was turning the lights out and coming up, too. The low whirr of the stair lift soon started. Then he heard her shuffling progress down the corridor. The toilet flushed, water gurgled in the pipes and her bedroom door clicked shut.
The signal that, finally, he could relax.
Moving quietly, he approached his iMac in the corner of the room. The screen came to life and he logged on to the Facebook group that consisted of him and a few carers of a similar age. Over the years, their number had steadily dwindled. The first thing he saw was a request for help from Alice, who lived in Rochdale with her blind mum.
Agh! The corners of Mum’s new shower are getting covered in this horrid black stuff. She can’t see it, but I can. Any suggestions? I’ve tried bleach, but it comes back within a week.
Sean reached for the keyboard. Hi Alice, you’ll need a mould removal spray. About five quid? It works better if you cut an old cloth into strips and spray them with remover. Lay the wet strips over the black bits and leave overnight. Let me know if that works.’ He came back out of that post and noticed another below it.
Guy’s gone.
Sean felt a lurch of abandonment: the same he always felt when one of these messages appeared. Knowing what was coming, he opened the panel up.
Hey everyone. I wanted to let you all know, Dad finally passed away two days ago. It’s cool; the hospice was amazing and he was totally free of pain all the way to the end. He’d often said he was ready to go, so please don’t feel sad! It’s a weird time now, suddenly in this house and all on my own. Well, not really on my own – people are popping by all the time, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I’m taking a breather by heading off to Thailand and Vietnam fairly soon! Then on to Australia where I plan to work for a while, but don’t think you’ve heard the last of me because I will be checking in to see how you’re all doing and to gloat about the weather. Heh, heh. That’s all for now, got loads to sort out. Stay strong, you hear? And, honestly, I’m OK. Guy. XXX
Sean started to type, but couldn’t see the letters that were appearing on the screen. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he began again.
Guy, I’m so relieved it all went smoothly for your dad, I know how much he’d been suffering. He was some fighter, from what you said. You take care and enjoy that trip because you deserve it! And let us know what those beach parties are like! We’ll be thinking of you.
He pressed send and bowed his head, knowing how things would pan out. Guy might send a few messages to begin with. But, as time went by, he’d get busier with other things. He was beginning a new part of his life, and that’s how it should be. Their little group had just shrunk again.
He rotated his shoulders a few times, logged out and then picked a particular icon from the toolbar at the bottom. The webcam display in the enclosure of the Snowdonia Wolf Sanctuary. He went to the view within the sleeping area and observed the long bodies stretched out on a layer of leaves and hay and moss. Cree and Yurok, the alpha couple and their clump of puppies. Makah, the beta male nearby. Four more adults, but no sign of her. He clicked on the exterior view.
Nothing moved among the small copse of pines at the far end of the enclosure. He clicked again. She was standing beside the pool of water, head hanging low as if wondering how a slice of the night sky had been laid across its still surface.
EIGHTEEN
The gun-metal grey BMW 6 series eased to a stop on Darlington Avenue and the driver lifted the printout off the dashboard. Kersal Mews. This was it.
He climbed out of the car, removed the polythene wrapper from the driver’s seat, then crouched to slide the paper from the footwell.
His boss had been very specific: the woman was a fire-breathing bitch who probably feasted on men’s balls for breakfast. Be polite and don’t leave so much as a speck of dust in her vehicle.
He checked over the sleek exterior. They’d even given it a complimentary polish. He cast his eye over the printout once more. Heather Knight, number sixteen. There were two front doors under the archway that led into the main courtyard. Number sixteen was on the left. Before ringing, he peered into the courtyard beyond. Audis, a Porsche, a Mercedes SLK. Another BMW 6 series, also grey. A couple of VW Beetles. Everyone said Didsbury was dead posh and trendy. He walked out
into the morning sunlight, looking for number sixteen’s slot. He could leave the car there. It was in the opposite corner, but some twat had parked a white Range Rover diagonally across a pavement bit and its bumper was jutting into sixteen’s space. He imagined the woman’s reaction when she got hold of the owner. When he rang her front doorbell, it made a noise like piano notes.
After standing there for over a minute, he tried again.
Nothing. Fuck’s sake. Wondering why he couldn’t just post the keys through the letterbox, he ambled back to the grass verge and called Martin. ‘Hi there. Yeah, I’m here, but she’s not answering her door. Twice. A minute, easily. It’s permit parking out on the road and she has a space in the courtyard bit, but some four-by-four is blocking it. Have you got a number for – you have? OK, I’ll wait outside her door.’
He had just reached it when he heard a phone start to ring from inside the flat. After seven repeats, it stopped. He crouched down and lifted the letterbox. Neat hallway, a row of watercolour sunsets along the wall. The ringing started again.
The noise was floating through the open doorway immediately on the right. He started trying to angle his head to see in when he heard a door open behind him. A man in one of those wanky wax jackets. He was wearing a tweed flat cap and was peering inquisitively at him.
He straightened up, aware of his shaved head and tattooed neck. He never thought he’d be glad of his naff work fleece with the word Gleesons stitched across the left breast. ‘I’m trying to drop off her car. Have you seen her?’
Beyond her front door, the ringing continued.
‘No, sorry.’ The man turned round and closed the door to his flat, then checked it was properly locked.
He rang Martin as the man in the tweed cap walked out onto the road.
His boss didn’t bother with any preamble. ‘It’s just going to her answerphone.’
‘I know, I could hear it from outside.’
‘Happy to issue demands, then disappears. Arrogant fucking slag.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You’ll have to bring it back. I’ll try her again before we close.’
Sean conducted a quick survey of the incident room as he came through the doors. Over half the desks allocated to detectives were still empty.