by Deborah Finn
“You’ll want to see this, sir,” he said.
McIntyre frowned slightly, stood up and moved towards the doorway with the officer. The officer pressed the touch screen and McIntyre watched. It was some kind of video, sounded like a TV news segment.
“What is it?” Martin asked.
McIntyre held up a hand for silence. When it finished, he looked at the officer. “Has a report been filed?”
“Not yet, sir.”
McIntyre nodded. “We’ll bring him in. Where’s Brownlowe?”
“She’s with the pathologist, sir.”
McIntyre frowned. “OK. Get a message to her. I want her back here.”
He turned back to Martin, and the officer left.
“What was that? Was that Gallagher?” Martin asked.
McIntyre sat down and looked at the paperwork in front of him. He scratched his nose and glanced briefly at Martin. He seemed about to say something when the door was opened again. McIntyre turned round.
“What now?” he asked.
It was a young female officer. She looked nervous. She handed a note to McIntyre. He read the first few lines, then glanced up at the officer with an unspoken question. She pressed her lips together, saying nothing. He looked back at the paper, and quickly scanned through to the bottom. He shook his head slowly, then turned to gather his papers. Martin had never seen him move so quickly. The papers were shoved into a file and he was on his feet.
“Mr Halton, you’re free to go,” he said, and span on his heel.
“But...” Martin began, but he was speaking to an empty room. He’d asked at the front desk as they processed his release, but they were telling him nothing. The desk sergeant’s expression was unreadable, as though he’d seen everything before. Maybe Martin was a murderer, maybe he wasn’t. Either way, he was telling him nothing.
Martin threw down the spoon into the bowl. He couldn’t eat anymore. He’d have a shower, a very quick shower to clear his head, and then he’d figure out what to do. He walked up the stairs. The door into Ben’s room was open. He looked inside. There was a mess of lego on the carpet. The bed was all made up and ready for him. The duvet cover was blue and white stripes. Martin sat on the edge of the bed. It didn’t seem so long since he’d had Bob the Builder bedding. He’d die rather than have that now.
Martin sucked in an uneven breath. Ben’s pyjamas were on the pillow. He picked them up and pressed them to his nose. They smelled like Ben, that musty, sweet child smell. The tears started to roll down his face, soaking into the checked fabric.
Thirty Five
“What about Holly? Can she come?” Farren asked.
Efren straightened up from the packages he had been covering with gaffer tape. “Your girlfriend?”
Farren laughed. “No way. Not taking no fucking bird with me. Holly’s me dog.”
“Your dog?” Efren laughed. “You want to take a dog to Spain? There’s plenty stray dogs in Spain for you to have.”
“I don’t want no stray mutt,” said Farren. “Holly’s a good dog. She wouldn’t be no bother.”
“You know that saying, ‘sick as a dog’?”
“She won’t get sick.”
“How do you know? Have you taken her on a boat before?”
“Yeah,” Farren said. “I went on a yacht with her. She was good.”
Efren bent over and carried on working with his packages. “Where did you go?” he asked. “On this yacht.”
Farren screwed up his face. “Errrr... it was... the Isle of Man.”
Efren laughed. “You’re lying, my friend,” he said.
“Well, so what? She’ll be fine, I’m telling you.”
Efren shrugged. He pointed a finger at Farren. “Your dog is sick on my boat, I throw her into the sea.” He raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Alright, alright,” Farren said. “I get it. She won’t be sick anyhow.”
“You clean up after your dog, you feed your dog,” he went on.
Farren smiled. “Great. It’s going to be great,” he said.
Efren shook his head. “This isn’t a holiday,” he said.
“Speak for yourself.”
“I leave at the high tide,” Efren said. “I don’t wait for you or your dog.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And you bring it in cash.”
“I’ll have it, no worries.”
Efren nodded and went back to his packages.
“See you later then, mate,” Farren said, and he turned to leave the building.
This was going to be great. The life in Spain was brilliant. Who’d stay here instead of going to Spain? He couldn’t think why he hadn’t done it years ago. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and started whistling. Once he was settled, he’d get his cousin Ryan to send over his stuff. He’d better get back now and sort it out. Just as well he never bought that car last week. He jumped on a tram and whistled all the way to his stop, looking out as a light rain fell on the city. No more rain for me. Blue skies every day.
He opened up his flat. “Holly,” he called out. The dog came bouncing down off the sofa and bounded towards him, tongue lolling and tail wagging. “We’re going on a bit of a trip, Holly,” he said. “You’re going to be the ship’s dog. That’s an important job.” He kneeled down and ruffled the dog’s floppy ears. The dog jumped up and down, licking his face. She dived towards the sofa and shoved her nose under the front, then came back, holding her ball.
“I can’t play with you now,” Farren said. “We’ve got to get ready, get packed.”
He looked around the little sitting room. There wasn’t much in here. The TV was shit anyway and he wouldn’t be watching TV in Spain. He picked up a little hardback red book from the mantelpiece. It was his karate book, showed his movement up the grades. He hadn’t done it for a couple of years now, but he used to like it. Maybe he could do that again in Spain? He’d take the book anyway. You never know.
He went into the bedroom and pulled a sports bag from under the bed. There was an old laptop there, but it was crap. He’d tell Ryan to chuck it. He shoved in his clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes. He went into the bathroom and grabbed toothbrush, toothpaste, and his underarm spray. He couldn’t find a washbag, so he shoved it all in a carrier bag and put that in the holdall.
“Is that it?” he said, looking at the bag. He rubbed his hands together. “We’re travelling light, you and me, Holly. Hey, I better get some food for the journey. You’ll have to have dried food. I’ll get it now.”
He skipped down the stairs and out the front door, whistling as he swaggered his way to the corner shop. He wandered down the narrow aisle. He picked up a big bag of MeatyBix and a couple of giant sausage rolls. That’d do. Maybe a few bags of crisps? Prawn cocktail or beef? He was looking at the crisps when his eyes were drawn below to the newspapers spread out on the lower shelf. There on the front page was a picture of the boss. He looked normal there, smiling. There was a small inset photo of him in the shopping centre, trying to throttle that girl. Farren scanned the article. Police sought Lester Gallagher in connection with an ongoing murder investigation and a missing persons report. The public were warned that he might be dangerous. Farren felt a black spot clouding his sunny future.
He went to the desk and paid for his items. He put the change back in his wallet. He better get some money. What did they use in Spain anyway?
He walked back down the street, but he wasn’t whistling anymore. He tried to think of the sea, the blue skies, the beaches. There’d be loads of women, loads of bars. It was going to be just great. But somehow his mind kept going back to that dark, damp cellar. He went into his flat and sat on the sofa. Holly jumped up next to him and tried to climb on his lap.
“Mind out, Holls,” he said, reaching under her to get the TV remote. He flicked it on, and went to the news channel. It was some shit about fracking, like he cared about that. He clicked the red button, went to the index. There was the story. He read it thr
ough. A woman and child reported missing. They didn’t say that Gallagher had anything to do with it, but they were making it look that way. Police had been unable to locate Gallagher at his residence or place of work. None of his associates knew his whereabouts. Police advised the public not to approach him.
Farren switched off the TV and threw down the remote. He turned to Holly.
“It’s not our problem, is it, Holly?” he said. She licked his face. “I didn’t ask to get involved in that. It’s not my doing.” Holly panted, her mouth open like a smile.
Gallagher lay still on his back, listening to the movements below, the packing up of his house. The voices had started out as loud and urgent, the movements were rapid, people going up and down the stairs. Over the hours, the voices had become muted, the footsteps slower. Finally, the house had become silent. He didn’t know if they’d all gone. Would they leave someone inside? No. Why would they do that? Someone watching from a car maybe or someone to secure his house, perhaps. They’d kicked his door down, after all, the bastards.
In the end, it was his bladder that made him move. It was a long time since he’d heard any movement below and he desperately needed to piss. There was probably a bucket or something up here, but he had to go down sometime.
He raised himself from the floor and winced as the pain from his shoulder sliced down his arm. He moved to take the weight off his arm and knocked over a brass fire stand. It banged and echoed as it hit the chipboard floor. Gallagher tensed, his bladder almost bursting as he listened for a reaction below. There was nothing. He smiled. It was safe. He pulled the steel bracket and rule out from under the ladder and let the hatch drop down slowly. He unfolded the ladder and swung himself over the side of the hatch and climbed down. He glanced in his bedroom. The bastards had completely turned the place over.
He went into the bathroom and had a long and satisfying piss. His hand went to the flush and then he thought on. Perhaps not. If there was someone outside, they might hear that. The bathroom window was slightly open. It faced onto the back garden. Gallagher put the toilet lid down and climbed onto it. He leaned over slowly, so that he could see out of the window. It was still dark. He looked at his watch. Four in the morning. It wouldn’t be too long before it started getting light. He should get out now. He looked along the perimeter of his dark garden. He could see no signs of life. Half way down the garden was a summerhouse, and behind that was a high hedge. Beyond the hedge, there was wood chipping and then the garden gradually turned into a wilderness. In that space, he knew, there was a way through to his neighbour’s garden, and their garden had some ancient gate that lead to the graveyard behind their houses. That might be his best bet.
He walked carefully into his bedroom. The curtains were open and the streetlamp illuminated the room. He got down onto the carpet and crawled to the edge of the window. He lifted his head just enough to look through the slatted blinds. The street was silent, everyone sleeping. He crawled to the other end of the window and looked out. There they were. A car was parked in darkness, its lights off. But inside he could see a light, someone’s phone. There were two people in the front seats. “Bastards,” he muttered. The back way it was.
He climbed back up the attic ladder and pulled down his bag, then he crept down the stairs. He paused on the bottom stair. As soon as he stepped out, he would be in full view of anyone who was out there. If they were looking towards the door, they would see him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then made his move. He took the final stair, and moved along the hall, and into the kitchen. He pressed himself up against the kitchen wall and waited. No sound, no response. He smiled again. They weren’t as clever as they thought.
He walked across the kitchen to the back door. He could see the back garden gate. Good job he’d gone for the security gate, the high gate that blocked all view of the garden. There was no one on the inside boundary of the garden. He turned the key quietly and slipped into the dark night air. The grass was damp beneath his feet. He walked quickly to the summer house. He glanced back once he reached it. There was nothing, no one was following him. He laughed at how easy it was.
The end of his neighbour’s garden was a wilderness much like his own. The gardens were long and narrow and people either turned the far end into a play area, an allotment or screened it off and let it go wild. Gallagher found his way through the gap in the rhododendrons and made his way to the far end and the boundary wall. Somewhere along here, he knew, there was a gate. He found it, and turned the handle. It was locked. Of course it was locked. What fool would leave it unlocked? He’d have to climb the wall. He looked up at it. It looked high and there wasn’t a lot to hold onto in the crumbling brickwork. He looked around and was rewarded with an ancient water butt. He tipped it over and emptied it, releasing a scent of death and decay. He pulled it over to the wall and set it upside down. That would do it, he reckoned. He threw his bag up and it caught on the top of the wall. He tried to climb on the water butt, but it was harder than it looked. He couldn’t get any purchase on it, and the thing kept toppling over.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. He wasn’t going to let a fucking wall stop him. He launched himself at the water butt again, and although it rocked and wobbled, it didn’t fall over. When it had steadied, he got to his feet. From here, it was easy enough. He got to the top of the wall and lay down on it. His shoulder was killing him. He should have thought to pick up some painkillers from the bathroom. He should have brought some whisky.
The other side of the wall was a soft landing into rotting leaves. He threw down his bag and then jumped after it. He was sweating, but the air was cold. He opened the bag and pulled out a hoodie. He zipped it up and pulled the hood up. That was better. He slung the bag over his good shoulder and headed across the churchyard and towards the road. It was a few miles to the greenway from here. There was a 24 hour shop on the way. He probably shouldn’t show his face, but he needed a drink. With the hoodie, he could do it, he thought. He thought of the kid’s face. He’d have to have a drink. He knew he couldn’t do it without a drink inside him.
Thirty Six
Martin was fighting a losing battle. It was very dark and the space was too tight. He thought he knew his way around these caves, but there had been too many junctions, too many turns. The dripping walls looked the same everywhere. They were behind him. They were close. He could hear the thundering of their horse’s hooves. How could they fit horses down here? And why were they blowing the horn, over and over again? He was stuck in the passageway. He twisted and turned, but he couldn’t get free and then...
With a thump, he woke up. He was on the living room floor. Martin jumped to his feet, confused, pulling away the blanket that had twisted itself around him. For a moment, he could still hear the horn blasting, and then he came out of the dream and realised it was the phone. He stumbled through the dining room, trying to get to the handset. It was still dark, but a little light was filtering through the window. He reached it, just as they hung up.
Martin snatched up the phone and pressed last number redial. The phone was picked up on the first ring. There was a momentary hesitation, then he heard Alastair Souter’s voice.
“Is that Martin Halton?” he asked.
Martin sighed heavily and sat down on a dining chair. “I thought you might be the police,” he said. “I thought you might have news.”
“No, sorry,” said the older man. “Is there still no word about your wife and child?”
“No,” Martin said heavily. He rubbed his eyes. “What was it you were calling about? What time is it anyway?”
“It’s six o’clock. It’s early, I know. I thought you might be awake.”
“No, that’s fine,” said Martin. “I must have just crashed out on the sofa. What was it, anyway?”
“I’ve just been speaking to the police,” Alastair Souter said. “It seems you were right.”
“I was right? What about?”
“About Gallagher,” he said. “Marilyn
had reported it. She went to the police first, but then she retracted the allegation.”
“So there was a record?” Martin said. “All along, there was a record?”
“It was misfiled, they said.”
“Yeah, right,” Martin said. “Filed up the backside of one of Gallagher’s yes men.”
“Perhaps,” Souter agreed.
“So they’re all turning him in,” Martin said. He stood up, suddenly energised and pacing the room. “That’s good. If his people are no longer sheltering him, that has to be good, doesn’t it?”
“It gives you hope?” Souter asked.
Martin heard the pain and the generosity in the other man’s enquiry, and suddenly he was ashamed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. It must have been... well, it must have been awful news to hear.”
There was silence at the other end for a moment, and when he spoke again, Martin could hear the thickness in Souter’s voice. “If only she could have told me. She was so alone, and...” his voice faded.
Martin didn’t know what to say. “I’m sure you gave her every chance,” he said.
“I tried,” Souter said. “It was too late by then.”
Martin could hear the desperation in his voice, but he could think of nothing more to say to offer comfort to the older man.
“They’ve told me nothing about the child,” he said. “Marilyn was six months pregnant when she disappeared.”
Martin closed his eyes, shutting everything out, trying to think. Should he tell him? No, surely not. Not at this moment. That would just add to his anguish. “Just hold onto that,” he said.
“Hold on?” Souter echoed.
“Somewhere out there is your grandchild,” Martin said. “Just hope and pray that you get to meet him.”
Farren checked his watch. There was time. There was loads of time. He couldn’t settle though. He just wanted to get out. He’d take Holly for a long walk, that’s what he’d do. Get her good and tired before they set off for the boat.