She stood and straightened all the cushions on the sofa, shaking and knocking the shape of her body from each square in turn, before putting it all back in place. By the time she was done, she was out of breath. When she switched off the lights, shadows stole back the living space. She moved through the flat soundlessly, undressing and standing for a long minute in front of the wardrobe mirror.
No mythical creatures. No pierced hearts, or entwined roses, or barbed wire. Just words. Because words hurt. Specifically, they hurt when inked across your ribcage and at the sharp points of your eighteen-year-hips.
Shall I kill myself, or make a cup of coffee? Two lines, parallel, across the last two ribs on the right side.
On the other side of her ribcage: An invincible summer.
Places of exile . . . across her left hip.
And curved around the bony jut of her right hip, I had the whole sky in my eyes, and it was blue and gold.
Pretentious, post-teen genuflection. The invincible summer when she read too much Albert Camus, and decided to make a statement on her skin. That should’ve been the end of it. But after Stephen Keele stabbed her parents to death, she found herself craving the peculiar, indulgent torture of the tattoo parlour. Like being punctured by a pencil lead, over and over again. The tattooist keeps wiping away ink and blood with a sterile cloth, which hurts even worse than the needle itself, as if he’s scrubbing a freshly skinned knee then skinning it again, scrubbing it, skinning it, over and over. Each stage of the process has its distinct pain. The needle. The scrubbing. The day when the bandages come off, and the ink begins drying under the skin and it starts to feel like slapped sunburn. She had to treat her skin like a baby’s: washing it and keeping it moisturised. Keeping clothes away from it. Not scratching, that was the hardest part of all. Scratch and you end up pulling the ink right out of the skin, so the whole thing’ll have been for nothing. Religiously, she scooped soft water over the tattoos, day and night, patting them dry with more tenderness than she’d shown her body before or since, lavishing lotion, blowing cool air like kisses.
Of course, it was about punishment. She’d never bothered denying that. Except for that first time. At eighteen, it’d been about rebellion, a shocking secret she was keeping from Greg and Lisa Rome, the hidden skin she brought to the family dinner table, under layers of dark clothes. She liked the ritual of it. The lesson in accepting – relishing – small amounts of pain. An exercise in self-control. More than that, it was her insurance against intimacy. No casual sex, unless she wanted to explain the tattoos. She tried to imagine Ed’s reaction to the neat lines of ink that ran coyly across her hips, emphasising their narrowness, her lack of curves. She couldn’t come close to imagining his reaction, drawing a blank that matched the pale spaces between the lines of text.
How did Hope Proctor feel, facing her skin each morning? The tattoo which matched Leo’s, embellished by the bruises he’d branded on her with his fists.
Marnie turned from the mirror and switched off the light, finding the bed, its pillows unnervingly soft under her head. She didn’t set the alarm clock, not wanting the sudden noise snapping at her in the morning. Instead she told herself, ‘You need to wake early. Six o’clock.’ Her subconscious, more reliable than any alarm, took custody of the instruction.
I had the whole sky in my eyes, and it was blue and gold.
She’d been twenty-six. He was twelve. Stephen Keele. Watching her undress, in that house, on a rare visit home to her parents and their new foster son. Two years before the murders.
She shivered at the thought of Stephen’s eyes reading her skin. She was afraid to dream, in case he was waiting for her. She could feel his stare, crouching in the corner of the room. Watching.
Her phone woke her from semi-sleep, red whorls in the blackness, at 5.25 a.m.
‘You asked for news of Leo Proctor’s progress.’ It was the doctor from the North Middlesex. ‘He’s conscious. By the time you’re at work, he should be fit to answer questions about what happened.’
‘How’s Hope?’
‘Comfortable. We haven’t told her the news about her husband. Hard to say how she’ll take it. I thought you might like to be the one to break the news.’
23
Row after row of windows, scalded by pollution, stared out from the brick facade of the North Middlesex hospital.
Noah Jake climbed from the Mondeo with Ed Belloc and Simone Bissell while Marnie Rome drove away from the main entrance, in search of parking. A thin rain was spitting, cold and spiky. Simone didn’t have a coat, just a shoulder bag, soft cloth printed with sunflowers. Ed took her inside. Noah followed.
A sleek desk formed the front line for the hospital’s Information Centre. Severe strip-lighting, the visual equivalent of nails across a blackboard, cross-hatched the ceiling. Simone pushed her hands into the sleeves of her jumper. ‘I need the bathroom.’
The woman at the desk pointed her to the left.
Ed Belloc touched a hand to Noah’s elbow. ‘You okay?’
Noah glanced at him in surprise. ‘I’m fine.’ He realised he was squaring his shoulders, and that his nose was pinched shut. He relaxed. Smiled. ‘I was thinking about Ayana. This business with her brothers . . .’
‘You’re asking her to give up her hiding place,’ Ed said. ‘The first place she’s felt safe. That’s not going to be easy for her.’
‘I understand that, but I want them punished for what they did. Nasif and the others.’
‘It’s a natural reaction.’ Ed hadn’t stopped watching the bathroom door, on the lookout for Simone’s return.
‘I could go and see if she’s okay,’ Noah offered.
Ed’s eyes travelled past him, to the main entrance. ‘Rome’s here,’ he said with relief. He smiled at Noah. ‘Best if she does it.’
Marnie returned from the lavatory with Simone. The four of them went on foot to the third-floor ward, where beds were separated by limp curtains on metal rails. In the bed next to Hope’s, a huge woman with a sunken face was moaning over a crossword. An oxygen mask made her eyes misty. Her breathing was scruffy, difficult.
DC Abby Pike was seated at a discreet distance from Hope’s bed. She stood up when she saw DI Rome, coming across to meet them.
‘How’s she been?’ Marnie asked in a low voice.
‘Quiet. Sleeping, mostly. Worried about how Leo’s doing.’
‘Why don’t you take a break? We’re going to be here a while.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ Abby gave Noah and Ed a big smile, a softer version for Simone, before leaving the ward.
Simone sat on the chair next to Hope’s bed. A blue Aertex blanket covered Hope’s legs. They’d propped her upright with pillows. The effect was of a rag doll artfully arranged.
Ed and Marnie stood at the foot of the bed, not moving any closer. Simone drew Hope’s hand from under the sheet and held it. The two women spoke in whispers, just loud enough for Noah and the others to hear.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Simone said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’
‘I’m all right.’ Hope’s hand was loose and unresponsive in Simone’s grip.
‘Detective Inspector?’ A doctor beckoned from two beds down.
Marnie left Ed’s side and walked over to where the man was waiting. The doctor told her something, too quietly for Noah to catch the words over the hospital radio that was streaming music into the ward. From her bed, Hope Proctor watched them with an intensity that made Simone turn her head to see what was going on.
Marnie’s mouth had pressed shut. Noah knew that look, it meant trouble. The doctor turned and walked back down the ward, without looking at any of the patients. Marnie nodded at Noah to come with her. Ed didn’t need a prompt to stay with Simone and Hope. Noah and Marnie followed the doctor out of the ward.
In the corridor, Noah said, ‘Hope seems a little better.’ It wasn’t strictly true, but he wanted to get Marnie talking.
She shot him a look. ‘She’s a mess.’ She did
n’t stop moving, following the doctor up a flight of stairs.
Noah had to lengthen his stride to keep up. ‘Are we going to charge him?’
‘We need her to give evidence. You heard what Ed said about these women. The longer the abuse lasts, the less chance of the victim pressing charges. You can get used to anything, apparently.’
‘But if she’s facing charges over the stabbing . . .? What will it be, attempted murder? Manslaughter? She could go to prison, for years. Won’t her solicitor persuade her to give evidence against Leo, as part of her defence?’
‘He’ll try. We’ll all try. You saw how quick she was to take the blame, back at the refuge. Entrenched victim mentality.’
The doctor had gone ahead, but he came to a halt now, waiting for them.
Marnie told Noah, ‘Leo’s awake. Let’s see what he’s got to say.’
24
She was here, in the hospital. He’d seen her, he’d fucking seen her.
Sweat crawled all over his body like a rash. He sat doubled up at the wheel of the car, I ♥ London cap pulled low, heart punching in his chest.
This was it. This—
From the back seat, the sound started up, as if it’d been waiting for him to get this near, as if it knew.
A thready whine, like a fly on loudspeaker, sounding like you could mute it with a swat of your hand, but you couldn’t. You could only make it worse.
He swung round in the seat anyway, furious because she was here.
This was his chance, maybe the only one he’d get.
The whine climbed higher, scraping at the inside of his skull.
‘Shut up,’ he threatened. ‘Shut up or she won’t be the only one getting what she deserves.’
25
Leo Proctor looked less sick than his wife did, despite the trauma of surgery to repair a hole in his lung. The blood transfusion had left him flushed, pink-cheeked. He was bigger than Noah remembered, with the look of a one-time sportsman run to seed. A pad of fat sat under his chin, jowls waiting in the wings of his face. Watery eyes, pale brown, fixed painfully on Noah and Marnie.
Marnie showed her badge, standing by the side of his bed.
Leo shut his eyes, then opened them again. ‘Where’s Hope?’ he whispered.
‘She’s safe,’ Marnie said. ‘She’s with a doctor.’
The cool tone she used underlined the implication: We know what you did.
Leo wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Is she . . . okay?’
‘She’s exactly as you left her.’
Noah took a step back, as discreetly as he could, in order to get a better perspective on Marnie and the man in the bed. ‘She didn’t mean to do it,’ Leo whispered.
‘She didn’t mean to do it?’
‘The knife . . .’ Leo wet his lips again.
‘Hope didn’t mean to stab you. Is that what you’re saying?’
It took Proctor a moment to process the acid in her voice. His eyes slid away, staying down. He closed his hands into fists. His head bent forward, his mouth drooping at the corners. A caricature of shame. He knew that they knew.
Marnie said briskly, ‘There’s some confusion over the knife.’ Leo didn’t look at her. ‘Did you take the knife into the refuge?’
Noah hid his surprise by pretending an interest in the chart at the foot of the bed. If Proctor made a confession under these circumstances, the CPS would almost certainly discount it. He was in pain, on medication, in a hospital bed. It was a measure of Marnie’s bad mood: asking questions that might muddy a conviction. Until they could prove otherwise, Leo Proctor was the victim here.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Yes, you took the knife into the refuge. Why did you do that?’
Leo’s chin was on his chest. He mumbled something that sounded like, ‘For her.’
Marnie folded her arms, turning her head away from the bed. She caught Noah’s eye, and flinched a little. Then she looked back at Leo Proctor. ‘Why was Hope in the refuge?’ She used her blandest voice.
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘You don’t know. Why do most women go to refuges, do you know that?’
Proctor drew a shattered breath. ‘To . . . escape.’ He raised his head. His eyes were wet. ‘To get away.’
‘What was Hope escaping from?’ He was silent. ‘Was it you, Mr Proctor? Was she escaping from you?’
Leo didn’t answer. Tears crawled down his flushed cheeks. Marnie took a sheet of paper from her pocket and smoothed it flat, holding it where Leo could see it. ‘Did you write this letter to your wife, Mr Proctor?’
‘No.’ A whisper, thick with tears. ‘No.’
‘This isn’t your handwriting?’ She put the letter away, staring down at the man in the bed. ‘You hurt her, didn’t you? You beat her, and you raped her. You had her branded, for pity’s sake; I’ve heard about the matching tattoos . . . It got so bad she finally worked up the nerve to leave. Did you try to find her? She wasn’t very far away. Then she called, to let you know that she was safe. That’s when you knew for certain where she was. How did it feel, knowing she got away? That she was with other abused women, swapping stories about abuse. About you. You didn’t like that, did you?’
Her voice remained bland despite the agitation of the man in the bed. The blandness made it worse, as if she was reading a witness statement or a charge sheet. ‘You took a knife, and you bought roses. Because that’s how it goes with men like you. Roses in one hand, a knife in the other, or were the roses an afterthought? An extravagance. She wouldn’t be expecting roses, not from you. Not your style. Nothing says “I love you” like a broken rib.’ She stopped, at last.
Leo was weeping openly, his chest heaving, face collapsed under the flood of tears.
Noah couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at Marnie, either. He was sorry for the man in the bed, and ashamed of Marnie’s tactics. After all that she’d taught him about the CPS, about evidence-gathering.
He made himself think of Hope, lying like a broken doll downstairs. Maybe he should be pleased to see Leo Proctor reduced to tears, but . . .
He’d helped save Leo’s life. Fuck it, he’d fought to save the man’s life.
This wasn’t right. He made himself stay where he was, at the foot of Leo’s bed, but he didn’t want to be here, in any part of the hospital. He didn’t want to be the person backing up Marnie Rome’s strategy for putting this right.
26
Marnie caught up with Noah Jake in the corridor. He was studying the view from the window. Rain pocked the glass by his head. He looked up when she approached, his face thinned by censure.
‘He’s admitted taking the knife to the refuge,’ she said. ‘That gives us intent.’
Noah put his hands in his pockets. A muscle played in his cheek. ‘Nothing he tells us right now is safe. For one thing, he’s doped to the eyeballs.’
‘He took the knife to the refuge,’ she repeated. ‘Why do you think he did that?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the point, isn’t it? We don’t know. Not yet. And why ask him about the letter, when Hope told you it was written to Simone?’
‘Because I don’t know if that’s the truth or if Hope’s covering for him. The letter plus the knife makes a damning case – and I know she’s protecting him. Because she’s traumatised. Terrorised. You didn’t speak with the doctor who examined her. Her injuries tell us she was abused for years. Raped, for years.’
Noah’s eyes darkened reflexively. ‘They don’t tell us who was abusing and raping her.’
She wanted to shock him over to her side. ‘Eight months ago, when Hope was living at home, Leo broke his hand. A boxer’s injury, the doctors call it. You know what that is?’ She closed her fist, showing it to him. ‘You get it from punching someone.’
‘He works in construction. He could’ve broken his hand at work. Or playing rugby.’
‘And his wife’s injuries are just a coincidence? Come on, it was him. He’s a bully and a coward. We
both know it.’
‘That’s not enough, though, is it? You’re always telling me we need hard evidence, to build a proper case. What you just did in there—’
She cut him short. ‘You didn’t like it. Good for you. Feel free to file a complaint against me.’
Noah raised a quick smile, the way a child raises a hand to fend off a slap.
Marnie turned away before he could reply, heading back down the stairs to the ward where Ed was waiting. She was in the wrong, and she knew it, but she had no intention of stopping, or retracting the words she’d spoken to Leo Proctor to reduce him to tears. Her one regret was that she had to tell Hope that the man who’d made her life a living hell was alive and kicking.
Someone had closed the curtains around Hope’s bed. There was no sign of Ed.
Marnie came to a standstill. ‘Hope?’ No response. ‘Simone?’
Nothing.
She drew the curtain and looked inside the cubicle.
The chair where Simone had been sitting was empty.
So was the bed.
27
‘Hope Proctor,’ Marnie said to the woman in the next bed, ‘did you see her leave?’
The woman tapped at the oxygen mask over her mouth, and shook her head.
Where was Ed? Marnie pulled out her phone as Ed and Noah came through the swing doors. Ed was carrying a hospital gown and robe. ‘I’ve alerted hospital security.’ He was grey with worry. ‘But it looks like they’ve gone.’
‘Both of them?’
Someone Else's Skin: (DI Marnie Rome) Page 9