by Neil White
Sheldon thought about that, and then he shook his head. ‘Keep it internal for now. Don’t let the press know. It might be a misunderstanding. Get a picture from the cameras in here and circulate it across the county, see if any other cop knows her. If we get nothing, then we go to the press.’
When Lowther nodded, Sheldon said, ‘Do it now though, no delays,’ and then jumped out of his chair. He was too warm, needed some air. He went quickly towards the door.
He turned back to Lowther to see him exchange raised eyebrows with Tracey.
Sheldon banged through the door and made for the exit at the end of the corridor. When he got onto the street, he settled back against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt the morning breeze just cool the sweat on his brow and his shirt collar felt tight. He opened his eyes and looked down at his fingers. They were trembling.
Don’t let this one go wrong, he said to himself. Please, not this one.
Charlie tore off his clothes when he got into his apartment and put them in the washing machine – he bought washable suits because he had spilled beer down them too many times. The towel from the office went in too. He didn’t know where the blood had come from, but he didn’t want any trace of it left. The knife went in the dishwasher, and once that was turned on he relaxed slightly, although the uncertainty about what had happened made his stomach perform loops every time he tried to work it out.
He went for a shower, unsure of what other traces he might be carrying, and once he was under the hot water he examined his body for more injuries. There were none. No scratches or cuts or bruises, apart from the grazes along his hand and his cheek. His knuckles looked normal. If he had been in a fight, he’d come off best by a long way.
He put his hands against the cold tiles and let the shower pummel him for a while. He winced as the grazes got used to the water and tried to recall more of the night before, but he couldn’t. It would come back in flashes, he knew that, it was always the same after a late night, but he wanted the answer to the bloody knife sooner than that.
Then he thought of Julie and straightened up, his hands rubbing his face awake. Since she’d left, he had called her sometimes when he got drunk. Had he gone further this time, perhaps argued more violently if she had threatened to arrest him, like she had hinted at?
Charlie put his back against the tiles and slid slowly downwards, until he was sitting in the shower tray and his head was against the wall. That couldn’t be right. He wouldn’t hurt Julie, he knew that. It wasn’t in him to hurt anyone.
Or was it?
He knew he had to call her, to confront it, but it was a call he didn’t want to make, just in case his worst fears came true. The water drummed against his legs as he sat there, until the urge to call became too strong.
He dried himself quickly and threw on a dressing gown. He picked up his phone and paused with his finger over the keypad. Yes, it was a call he didn’t want to make, but he knew he was just stalling.
He dialled quickly and paced up and down, waiting for her to answer. Then he heard the click.
‘Hello?’ It was Julie’s voice, although her drawl told him that he had woken her up. Then he remembered that she had missed her rest day because of Billy Privett’s murder. She must have got it back. There was a man’s voice in the background.
‘Julie, it’s me,’ Charlie said.
‘Charlie? For Christ’s sake,’ she said, her annoyance snapping in.
‘No, I’m not ringing for that. I just wanted to know if you are okay.’
There was a pause, and then, ‘You’re not making any sense.’
He put the phone against his chest as he thought what he could say, and then, ‘I heard a police officer was hurt last night. I was worried it might have been you.’
‘I’m fine, and so is Andrew.’ Then her voice softened. ‘Thanks for the concern, Charlie. Now if you don’t mind, I want to get back to sleep.’
Charlie was relieved, although he heard the male voice whisper something and Julie giggled. He closed his eyes.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and clicked off the phone.
So what now? He wasn’t hurt. Julie was fine. So how could he explain the knife, and how could he explain the blood?
Chapter Twenty-One
Sheldon drove quickly through the gates to Billy’s house, his wheels throwing up gravel against the gateposts and making Tracey grip the door handle.
He was first out of the car, running towards the front doors, Tracey following. They weren’t locked. He pushed at them and watched as the hallway came into view.
Billy’s house felt different straight away. Empty, quiet; cold even, despite the warmth outside. He shouted out Christina’s name. There was no response.
Sheldon ran for the stairs, ignoring Tracey’s footsteps behind him. He went straight to Christina’s room. He had been in there the day before. He had seen her clothes, her things. Photographs on the wall. Cosmetics on the dresser. Christina had lived there, he knew it.
As Sheldon flung open a wardrobe door, he saw it was empty, just the jangle of the coat hangers to greet him. He checked the drawers. There were no clothes or jewellery or personal things. It was the same in the bathroom. Lowther was right. She was gone.
Sheldon went from room to room, checking for Christina’s clothes, but there was no trace of her.
He walked slowly down the stairs and saw Tracey looking up at him, concerned. He slumped onto the bottom step. His hands hung from his knees and he stared at the floor. Why did it feel like he had lost control over whatever went on in this house?
‘Sir, are you all right?’
When Sheldon looked up, he took a deep breath and nodded assertively, but the clench to his jaw gave him away. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just stayed up too late.’
Sheldon got to his feet and walked out of the front door, striding past his car and towards the gates at the front of the house, his ears filled with the sound of his footsteps on gravel. The house next door wasn’t too far away. He knew the road from his late night surveillance. Maybe they had seen Christina go, or knew more about her.
He went through the gate and along the fence at the front of the house, his feet swishing through the long grass. As he turned onto the driveway of the house next door, he saw the door begin to open. They had seen him.
‘Mrs Taylor,’ Sheldon shouted. He knew their names, of course. She had made the most complaints about Billy before Alice died, and had been the one who called in the complaint that led to Alice being found.
She looked nervous as the door opened fully, a woman in her sixties, with a pinafore dress and tight curls that had been dyed into a deep brown. Her husband was just behind her, in slippers but dressed smartly, a shirt and tie and pressed blue trousers.
‘We knew you’d come round eventually,’ Mrs Taylor said, as Sheldon got closer, her voice coming out with a tremble. ‘It was awful what happened to Mr Privett. We saw it on the news and, well, we just want you to know that although we didn’t get on with him, we would have no part in anything like that.’
Sheldon was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Privett’s murder. I know how you find out who had a grudge against the dead person, to work out who killed him, and I suppose we’re some of those people. So we are suspects.’
Sheldon smiled, a moment of relief. ‘You’re not suspects, I promise you.’
She visibly relaxed, and so opened the door to let him in. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’
He was about to refuse, he just wanted to find out if they knew where Christina had gone, but he felt the sudden urge to relax, to sit down and enjoy the warmth of their hospitality. ‘Coffee, please. That would be nice.’
He sank into a high-backed chair that looked towards the view at the front. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and felt the comfort of the chair send him drifting off somewhere, where he couldn’t feel his doubts anymore, where Billy Privett didn’t matter.
He woke up with a
start. Mrs Taylor was in front of him, holding out a cup of coffee.
‘Have you been working too hard?’ she said, as she handed it to him.
Sheldon nodded. ‘It seems that way sometimes.’ He took a sip of coffee, felt it perk him up. ‘Did you know the girl next door, Christina, Billy’s housekeeper?’
‘Blonde girl? Yes, we used to see her around. We thought it was Mr Privett’s girlfriend, because since, well, you know, Alice, he had been quieter. Not as many parties.’
‘She’s not there anymore. Did you ever speak to her?’
‘No, not ever. Not even a smile. But why would anyone from there say hello to us? They knew what we thought of them.’
‘She left yesterday. Did you see her go?’
They shook their heads.
Sheldon put the cup on the floor and put his head back against the chair, as the sound of the blood rushing through his head overwhelmed him. He thought he could hear someone talking, getting closer, but he ignored it. Someone’s hand was on his but he didn’t look up. He saw Billy’s smirk, and Alice’s body. He remembered when his wife left him, her clothes packed into bin liners, her screams that she couldn’t compete with Alice Kenyon anymore. So it had come to this, his life defined by what he couldn’t solve, not what he could.
The hand around his became tighter. He could hear voices shouting at him. ‘Inspector. Inspector.’
He opened his eyes slowly and the room blurred into view. Then he saw that it was Tracey Peters, her hand shaking his.
‘Sir, are you all right?’
He looked at her, and then at Mr and Mrs Taylor, their eyes filled with concern, and he nodded.
As he stood to go, following Tracey, he glanced over to Billy’s house, visible over the hedges and rhododendron bushes. He thought it looked dark, a cloud in front of the sun casting the house in shadow, while everywhere else was bathed in sunshine.
Sheldon turned away.
Charlie faltered as he got near to the court building, the three files Linda had given him earlier tucked under his arm. First hearings. A guilty plea and two not guilty. One long, two quick. He could do this.
But he wasn’t sure that he could, because the blood-covered knife dominated his thoughts. He had to try though, because he had to appear normal. If he had hurt someone with the knife, appearing different could count against him if the police started asking questions. Same old Charlie, that’s what he had to be.
Donia was waiting for him, standing just to the side of the main doors, looking smart in a navy skirt and jacket. She waved as she saw him.
Charlie took a deep breath and smiled as he got closer.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I knew you were coming here,’ she said.
‘I tripped,’ he said, knowing that she was looking at the graze on his cheek but not wanting to discuss it. He looked around for police officers, and felt a jolt when he saw a dark uniform on the other side of the courthouse door. He went closer, needing to reassure himself, and as he got closer he breathed more easily. It was an officer in uniform, but he was in his parade dress, best tunic and shiny buttons, so he must be giving evidence.
Charlie hustled his way through the crowd huddled around the door. It was the daily gathering, and the usual smells assaulted his nostrils, of cigarettes and sweat, unwashed clothes smelling like sour milk. There were grunted greetings, and one or two scowls from those people whose days in court hadn’t gone so well in the past.
Charlie nodded at the people he recognised, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He was at court because it was what he did. He could have asked Amelia to do it, feigned illness, but it was all about appearing normal, just another day. Except that he needed his anxiety to keep him alert, because whenever he was able to convince himself that he’d done nothing wrong, the fear was replaced by fatigue. The fog of a hangover felt heavy and waves of nausea swept over him from time to time. He hadn’t eaten anything, apart from the steady supply of mints intended to keep the boozy smell away.
Donia fell in behind him as he went inside, elbowing his way through the crowded waiting room and towards the door to one of the courtrooms. He could see the respectful calm of the court on the other side, visible through a glass porthole. He practised his smile, so that it looked natural, not forced, but when his eyes focused on what was in the courtroom, he backed away.
It was the usual scene. Two rows of wooden benches, like church pews, facing towards the high bench occupied by the Magistrates, the backdrop a high velvet curtain, the royal coat of arms hanging in front of it, the lion and the unicorn. The prosecutor was ready in his seat, the white file covers piled up on the desk in front of him, but it was the person he was talking to that made Charlie back away.
It was one of the local detectives. He was standing over the prosecutor, talking. It wasn’t unusual for the police to attend the court hearings. Sometimes they had updates to pass on, and sometimes they just wanted to see the prosecutor put up a fight. This might be different though. They might be waiting for him.
‘Are you Charlie Barker?’
He started. When he looked round, there was a man in his early twenties, scowling, holding some papers in his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie mumbled, backing away. ‘I just need some fresh air.’
Charlie bolted outside, banging through the entrance door, and made it to the street before he threw up. It was booze and nerves and tiredness, but that didn’t make him feel any better as he heaved to the cheers of the crowd behind him.
Once he had finished, he propped his head on his arm and leant against the wall. His forehead was clammy, and for as long as he didn’t look up, he could pretend that no one had seen him. There was a hand on his shoulder. He looked round, bleary-eyed. It was Donia.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
Charlie nodded. ‘Just a bug, I’m sorry.’
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled for it and checked the screen. It was the office.
‘Linda?’ he said.
‘Have you seen Amelia?’ Linda said. ‘She hasn’t come in and she’s got an appointment.’ Her voice turned into a whisper as she said, ‘He’s sitting opposite me and he’s stinking the place out.’
Charlie took some deep breaths. He didn’t need this. Linda kept a can of air freshener under her desk for clients like that. ‘Have you called her?’
‘Yes, landline and mobile. And one of her friends called. She didn’t make their dinner date last night.’
He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘Okay, I’ll go round when I’ve finished here.’
‘And what do I tell her client?’
‘Just tell him to come back another time,’ he said, and then hung up.
Charlie leant back against the wall and enjoyed the feel of the cold brick against his head. Cold sweat prickled his forehead again, before he felt another surge in his guts, and there were more cheers as he retched once more against the brick wall of the courthouse.
Chapter Twenty-Two
John squinted as the bright morning sunshine streamed in.
The night had become raucous, with too much home brew, too much cannabis. Laughter, drinking, some people naked, as if it was the best party they had ever been to, Henry moving from person to person, asking for promises of loyalty. They had all given it, even Dawn.
He collapsed back onto the bed, sucking in air to calm the nauseous roll of his stomach. Gemma’s body was warm next to him. She mumbled and moved, her arm going over his chest as she shuffled closer, her head against his body. He smiled and ran one hand over her hair and then along her back, her skin soft, just the sharp ridges of her spine disrupting the smooth feel of her body. His mind went back to the night before, but it came back to him in flashes. Gemma on him, passionate, her shouts of pleasure, uninhibited and joyful. And there were other people with them, their hands on him, on Gemma.
He closed his eyes. It had got too wild. Gemma didn’t move as he climbed out of bed. He got to his feet, gro
aning, and then stumbled his way to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet for a while, wondering what lay ahead for the rest of the day. Henry had said that things were happening now, that the day ahead would be important.
There were footsteps on the landing. John coughed to let whoever who it was know that he was in there. There was no door on the bathroom. Henry didn’t like doors. Whoever was on the landing was walking softly, sounding like they were barefoot.
He froze when he heard a voice say, ‘John?’ It was Henry.
John flushed the toilet and scrambled to his feet, before stumbling onto the landing.
‘Morning Henry,’ he said, trying hard for normality. ‘The home brew came back and bit me.’
Henry grinned. ‘It can rot you from the inside if you don’t keep an eye on it.’
‘Were you looking for me?’
‘I was. Come with me, for a walk. You look like you need some fresh air,’ and he headed down the stairs and out of the main door, the one that opened onto the field, the Seven Sisters in view.
John ran to get some clothes. He paused to gaze down at Gemma, and he felt a moment of longing, a need to be with her again, but he looked away. Henry was waiting for him.
When John joined him outside, Henry was sitting on the stone slab of the Seven Sisters.
‘What do you think when you look at the stones?’ Henry said.
John placed his hand on one. It was cold, just stone, but he remembered Dawn’s description. ‘It’s a legacy, something for people to remember us by.’
Henry nodded and smiled. ‘We’ll need a legacy, because we are nearly ready,’ he said. ‘We just need people to help us with our mission, and only those people will know about it.’
‘What mission is that?’
‘The fulfilment of our plans,’ Henry said. ‘We’ve had them in place for a while, but it is about picking the right moment, and the right people. You are one of those people. We need you.’
‘But I can’t agree to something I don’t know about.’
‘You trust me?’