Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long a story short, we finally decided to go in and look for him. Jenny has a key, you know. She’d been reluctant to intrude. But anyway, there he was, in the dining room, covered in blood, with all those dreadful things around him. He was completely incoherent.’

  Elizabeth had begun to cry, quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just so terrible.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Jack looked at George Bradley.

  ‘We got the doctor. He’s taken him into hospital. They’ve sedated him, and they’re going to do a full assessment.’ Bradley stood up and opened a cupboard. He brought out a bottle of brandy. ‘Here, Elizabeth, have a drop of this. It goes surprisingly well with tea.’

  Jack looked around him. The kitchen was filled with sunshine. A tabby cat lay sleeping in a basket on the countertop. It snuffled and snored gently, its whiskers twitching. Above it was a pegboard covered with notices, letters, photographs, cards all pinned haphazardly together. He needed something like that, he thought, for when the girls came to stay. He could never keep track of their swimming lessons, their ballet lessons, their term times, days off, holidays.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, finishing his tea and refusing another cup.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but thanks for coming anyway. I wanted you to know about this. Oh, don’t get me wrong.’ She reached out and touched his hand. ‘I’m not blaming you. Stephen’s mental condition doesn’t, I think, only have to do with what’s happened over the last couple of months. I bear a lot of responsibility for it too, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you agree, George?’

  George Bradley looked at her and for a moment his stare was hard and unforgiving. Then he smiled, a mechanical grimace.

  ‘Not at all, dear. That was a long time ago. Water under the bridge and all that.’

  He thought about forgiveness as he drove home. He had forgiven Joan her sins, he supposed. He hadn’t enjoyed being deceived, being lied to, being made a fool of. But then he didn’t really love her, so he wasn’t hurt in that way. He thought about George Bradley and Mark Hill. One had forgiven, the other had not. One was alive, the other was dead. One had a family that was still intact. Children who were growing up with futures to anticipate. He thought about the terrible scene in that room. The stench, the sight of the sticky dried blood all over the floor, the fly-blown animal remains. What must have been going through that poor kid’s mind? How had he got to the stage where he could do all that?

  The rain had lifted by the time he got home. He parked the car and walked back towards the harbour. He sat down on a granite bollard. The slipway was crammed with people and boats. It was a happy, colourful scene. It would have been like this the day that Rachel went out with Beckett, he thought. They had taken statements from a number of people who had seen them. How did she look? he had asked. They all said the same thing. How does anyone look who’s about to go off sailing on a nice afternoon? She looked normal, that was what they said. He went through the checklist of where they had searched for her. The ports, the airports, the train and bus stations. They’d found nothing. They’d put her photo and description out on the TV news. It had been plastered all over the newspapers. No one had seen a thing. She had got into the boat with Beckett and as far as they could tell she hadn’t come back. And something had happened out there. Something that wasn’t good. He rehearsed the evidence so far. Blood that matched Rachel’s all over the cabin. The knife with her blood and Beckett’s fingerprints. Blood too all over his sailing gear. And then there was the evidence they had collected at his house. Hairs and fibres taken from the bed, the sofa. Her bag on the bonfire. The clothes picked up by the fishermen from the Irish sea. The evidence of at least one violent encounter between the two of them. The statements from the other tenants and from Clare Bowen. She had bruises, all over, Clare had told him. She was frightened. So why did she go out in the boat with him? What hold did he have over her?

  Did they have enough to charge him? Jack would have thought so. Beckett had the three essentials. Means, motive and opportunity. But the DPP hadn’t made a decision. So they’d watch him. Drive him crazy. And sooner or later something would give. Jack was sure of it.

  Poor Rachel Beckett, he thought. Andy Bowen was probably right about her. She should never have had to serve that sentence. He felt suddenly guilty. But what was it to him? He was barely involved. He was the new kid on the case. Older, wiser heads had made the decision to go for the murder conviction. Had refused to countenance a plea of manslaughter. Had insisted that she should pay the price for her crime. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He needed Alison now. A bit of comfort would go a long way on a night like tonight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  IT HAD BEEN easier than Daniel had thought to move the girl from the apartment just off the North Quays out to the house in Killiney. He had to hand it to her. She was pretty cool when it came to pressure. She knew how to look after herself. Not bad for a kid barely eighteen. Still, he supposed she hadn’t licked it up off the street. Her mother had the same kind of calm. He remembered her that day out in the boat. The blood dripping down her wrist, the way she had reached out for him, asked him to pick up the knife. Scattered all those bits and pieces of evidence all around the boat, and his house and car. Left her markings to be sniffed out.

  He could have left Amy longer in the apartment in town. It was safe enough in some ways. He’d been able to drop in and see her a couple of times a day. Leaving the van in one of the underground car parks where his company had the security contract, then slipping out through the crowds and taking a circuitous route through the city to the service entrance of the apartment block. She had seemed fine to him. They had talked. He had cooked meals for her. Spaghetti Bolognese, his speciality, and garlic bread. Brought her bottles of wine. Chianti in raffia bottles. She had questioned him about what had happened then, all those years ago. She wanted to know everything, everything he could tell her about his relationship with Rachel.

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me herself?’ she kept on asking him. ‘Why did she go on telling me lies?’

  He couldn’t answer her.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘she didn’t want to make things seem any worse than they already were. She didn’t want to drag you into the shame of it all. I suppose she was trying to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me,’ the girl had scoffed. ‘It wasn’t that. She was just a coward. She couldn’t face me with the truth. But . . .’ She leaned across the table and took his hand. Her cheeks were pink. The wine, he thought. ‘But wasn’t it very cruel of her to deprive you of me? After all, you had no one of your own. No one of your own flesh and blood, I mean. You would have wanted me, wouldn’t you? You would have wanted us to be together, isn’t that so?’

  He supposed he could have left her in the apartment in town, but he could see that she was getting restless. She didn’t like being locked in on her own. He kept on telling her that it wouldn’t be for much longer, but after three days had passed she was beginning to get anxious. And he was worried. The apartment was registered in Ursula’s name. But he wasn’t sure how long it would be before some clever little prick of a detective would do a search of the Land Registry and find it. So it would be better to bring her out to the house in Killiney. They’d already been over it with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. And they wouldn’t get another search warrant without further evidence. And it would be so much easier to have Amy close at hand.

  So he’d worked it all out. And he’d waited. He knew the surveillance routine. They didn’t hang around all night. Once they thought he was safe in bed, they disappeared. Watching the overtime claims, he was sure. So he waited and listened, then when all was quiet he slipped out of the house, down the cliff path, along the beach to the car park by the DART station, and found the van he’d arranged to have parked there. The one that belonged to the business, but without any logo to identify it. He drove into town. She was
lying fast asleep on the sofa, turned on her side, with her arms wrapped around a cushion. A blanket was slung over her legs, and when he touched her on the shoulder, whispering her name, she shot up out of her sleep grabbing hold of it and pulling it up to her face, frightened for a moment. Confusion, surprise all over her small pale face, then quickly realization as she pushed aside the blanket, her legs bare underneath it, and stood and pulled on her jeans, shoving her feet into her runners, quickly bending down to tie the laces. Then picking up her leather backpack, running a hand through her short hair, following him out into the cold. Didn’t ask him anything, just stood shivering, her lips trembling as he opened up the back of the van and gestured for her to get in. Showed her the sleeping bag rolled up on the mattress in the back, waited until she had pulled it up and over her body. Locked her in. Then unlocked the door when they had arrived back at the car park by the DART station. Told her to follow, then took her hand to pull her quickly through the soft sand, down on to the shore, showed her the way across the rocks, heard her breath coming in short gasps as she struggled to keep up with him. They scrambled up the path, through the pine trees and into the house, just as a faint streak of pale grey appeared along the horizon.

  ‘For your safety,’ he said to her as he unlocked the attic, switched on the light, showed her the camp bed against the wall, the pot in the corner, the bottles of water and the bread, cheese and fruit. The small transistor radio on the floor. ‘It’s better this way. You’ll be safe here. You’d never know what’s going on outside. Stay here for the day, sleep as much as you can, and this evening when I come home you can come downstairs and we can talk.’

  He didn’t pay any heed at the time to the expression on her face. Afterwards he realized it had been a mistake not to notice. That she was hurt that he was making her a prisoner in his attic, that he wasn’t welcoming her into his home as his firstborn, his oldest daughter. He heard her calling out to him as he ran downstairs, and he paused and listened for a moment, and called back up to her, that she should sleep, and not to worry. He thought about her from time to time as he went about his business throughout the day but he wasn’t anxious. The attic was secure. There was only one tiny skylight, and it didn’t open. The bolt on the door was solid. And anyway, this situation wasn’t going to last for too much longer. He knew the impact the tape would have. Rachel would come running, scuttling out of her hiding place. He knew she would. And it would all be over.

  It was late when he got home, after dark. The same set of headlights had followed him all the way out from the city and parked within sight of the tall gates. He had paused and flashed his hazard lights at them as he turned into the drive. When this was all over he was going to sue them for wrongful arrest. For harassment. For compensation. For fucking up his life. He was going to make that arsehole Jack Donnelly pay for all this. He parked the car outside the front door and let himself in. The house was silent. She’d be hungry, he was sure of that. Probably bored, fed up. He would let her out, run her a bath. Cook her a good meal, give her something to drink. Open a nice bottle of wine. Show her around the house. Show her how well he’d done. Who knows, he thought as he walked up the attic stairs, when this is all over maybe she’ll come and stay with us. Ursula would like her, he knew she would.

  Or perhaps, or perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea. He paused on the small landing and listened. He could hear nothing from inside. He sat down on the top step and rested his head against the wall. So far only three people knew about his relationship with Amy. And that was the way to keep it. The last thing he wanted was anyone asking any questions, thinking back to Martin’s death and wondering. Perhaps it might not be such a good idea if Amy went home after all this was over.

  He stood up and listened again. There was still no sound from the attic room. He shot back the bolts and unlocked the door. He bent his head to step inside. It was dark. The light was turned off. She must be sleeping, he thought. He walked slowly towards the bed and called out her name, quietly, so he wouldn’t startle her.

  ‘Amy, Amy, wake up. I’m back. Have you been all right here all day by yourself?’

  The room smelt foetid, stale, with a tang of urine. He couldn’t actually see her anywhere. He could see the shape of the bed, the tumbled blankets.

  ‘Amy, it’s me. It’s Dan. Wake up now. I’m going to cook you the best steak you’ve ever eaten.’

  And then he felt rather than a heard a disturbance of air, just behind him, and turned, just in time, and just in time saw her standing holding something in her right hand. What was it? It was lighter in colour than anything else in the room. And as she moved her arm, began to bring it up over her head, he saw that it was a piece of metal, and realized that the camp bed was partially dismantled. That she was holding one of the struts, and as she stepped towards him, her arm up above her head, he moved away, just out of reach, so when her arm came down the metal bar struck him not on the back of his head, as she had intended, but on his shoulder. Pushing him backwards, making him lose his balance, so he crashed down on to the floor and saw that she was about to turn and rush through the door. Until, that is, he reached out and grabbed her around the ankle, feeling thumb and index finger joining around the bone. Tugging at her so she too crashed down beside him with a scream and a groan, while he pulled himself hand over hand, up along her leg, up over her knee, up her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh, until he could grab her by the waist, pressing her to the ground with the whole of his weight, twisting her short hair in his fingers so she cried out in pain. Felt her small breasts flatten beneath him, smelt her sweat, her fear. He shouted at her, ‘Going to do the dirty on me, were you? I thought we had a bargain. I thought we were agreed. I thought you supported me in this. That you agreed that your mother was an evil woman. That I had to get her to come back. I thought we agreed.’

  He pulled her head back and knocked it down hard on the wooden floor, so she cried out again and again, tears starting into her eyes. He jerked her up to sitting and then to standing, twisting her hands behind her back, anger rising up through him so he wanted to hurt her, pay her back for the betrayal. He hit her hard across the face, so blood began to spurt from her nose, then crashed his fist into her stomach. And as she began to scream out in pain he flung her as hard as he could towards the camp bed in the corner and heard her begin to beg for forgiveness.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was frightened. I thought you weren’t going to come back, that you were going to leave me here. I tried the door, but you had locked it. I couldn’t cope with the feeling of being trapped. And I heard that tape being played on the radio today. I feel so bad. I heard my foster-parents being interviewed. And they’re so worried about me. They were crying. It was terrible. And I realized I want to go home. I shouldn’t be doing this. I must have been crazy. I don’t even know you. Why should I believe you anyway? How do I know you are who you say you are? How do I know you’re not lying to me?’

  She pulled back and away from him, putting her hands up in front of her face to shield herself, and then it was that other night all those years ago and Martin lying there on the floor, holding his hands up in front of his shocked white face, hands that were already covered with the blood from the wound in his thigh, and an expression of bewilderment turning to realization as he saw how Daniel was lifting the gun to his shoulder.

  As he now lifted his right hand, index finger extended, thumb cocked towards the ceiling, his other fingers curled in against his palm, and pointed it at her.

  ‘Bang, bang,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished with you. I’ll be back, and then you’ll be sorry.’ He backed away, standing for a moment silhouetted in the doorway, before slamming it shut, locking it, bolting it top and bottom. Hearing her crying out to him not to leave her. Begging to be let out. Breathing quickly as he took the stairs two at a time, not stopping till he reached the hall below, and the kitchen and the warmth and the light.

  The light inside, the heavy brocade curtains slip
ping over the long dark windows on their smooth, noiseless runners. The bottle of whiskey on the table. Lifting it up, feeling the smooth hardness of the glass against his teeth as the liquid burned its way down his throat. Then pouring it into a large heavy tumbler, its crystal base leaving deep indentations in the flesh of his hand as he squeezed it tightly, gulping down the warmth and comfort. The adrenalin seeped from his body and his head began to droop, jerked upwards for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus, then sagged back down on his chin as the glass dropped from his hand on to the wooden floor, rolled over and around and around in a circle, and came to rest against the edge of the rug.

  Until something jerked him back up out of his doze, so he found himself half out of the chair, his heart pounding, the breath coming out of his chest in short sharp gasps. And heard the sound of the dog, barking. The dog, of course, he had forgotten all about the dog, tied up in the garage now Ursula and the kids weren’t here to take care of the stupid mutt. Making such a racket. Short, sharp yowls of anger and despair. So he pulled himself upright and walked into the kitchen, dangling the bottle by its neck, pouring himself another large shot as he hunted in the cupboard for the dog food, the tin opener, hearing his own footsteps on the tiled floor, loud in the empty house. He turned towards the glass door that opened on to the garden and stopped. And saw standing outside, staring in at him, a small, slim figure. Dark clothes, cropped dark hair, small white face. Smiling. Lifting a hand and placing it pressed flat against the glass. A hand with a long red scar bisecting the palm between thumb and index finger. And above it that face, familiar and unfamiliar at one and the same time. She had cut her hair and dyed it black. So she looked for an instant like the girl upstairs. And as he stood and watched she put her other hand in her pocket and pulled out a cloth, and then as she lifted her palm from the glass she used the cloth to wipe away the marks, palm print, prints from the pads of flesh on her fingertips, that she had left there. All the time smiling at him as the cloth moved up and down, up and down, side to side, side to side, until all was clean and shiny again. As she moved back and away and into the darkness, lifting her scarred hand in salute, and was gone.