by Emmy Ellis
He sat at his desk, his interview with David over, frustrated as hell because the man hadn’t told him anything except that he was looking for someone to be his mum. The bloke had serious issues, was a fuckup, no getting away from it, and maybe a psychologist would fare better with him. David may or may not open up, but the evidence in the Fiat alone was enough for a conviction. Langham had had a call from Hastings, who’d opted to join those at the flat gathering evidence, to say they’d found a diary that Langham ought to read.
He was waiting on its arrival now, drinking coffee that tasted like gnat’s piss—not that he’d ever tasted any to make that comparison—and munching on one of his biscuits. Oliver had gone home after the arrest.
Langham got up, stretched, the muscles in his back protesting, his bones doing the same with audible cracks that told him he was getting on a bit. Not that nearing forty was getting on, but it bloody well felt like he was older than he was at times. Like now, having had little sleep and wanting nothing more than his bed but knowing he couldn’t have it for a few hours yet.
He left his office and went out into the car park for some fresh air. It woke him up a bit, shook the fog from his mind and invigorated his heavy limbs. It was daylight again on a Sunday morning that he should have sodding well been enjoying at home, lazing about in bed, knowing he didn’t have to return to work until the following day. He didn’t have another weekend off until a fortnight’s time, but he’d sleep the sleep of the dead tonight, he knew that much.
Not a good choice of words there.
If he smoked, he’d enjoy several cigarettes before he went back inside to have another crack at Courtier. The man had been asleep in a cell the last time Langham had checked, and he envied him the oblivion. Did he sleep well? Who the fuck knew, but he dreamed, that much was certain. His eyelids had flickered, rapid movements, and Langham had walked away, shaking his head and wondering just what the fuck was going on inside that man’s head.
* * * *
David stood in his childhood living room again, facing the bogeywoman. She didn’t look very pleased, as usual, and he watched her, wary, unsure of whether she’d spew her litany of abuse or get up and drag him into his room for a beating.
He wanted to shrug again—why did he always get the urge to do that when with her?—but resisted, clasping his hands behind his back, holding tight as though one hand belonged to someone else. Someone who gave a shit and had reached out to give him comfort. It was better than the truth, pretending like that, helping him in the calm before the possible storm.
She eyed him with that expression of hers, the one he feared the most. It meant she was about to do something horrible and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Meant he’d have to either leg it and hide or stand there and take whatever she dished out. That look had different degrees of scariness, and he’d learnt early on to gauge which one meant which thing. This one inspired all-out terror. He wouldn’t be running and hiding. He didn’t dare.
“You fucked up good and proper this time, didn’t you?” she said, bouncing one leg over the other again. Her red high-heeled shoe came loose, dangling on her toes and flapping with her movement.
He waited for it to drop. Wondered why she always dressed as though she was going for a night out on the town. Dad had told David once that she’d worn normal clothes when he’d met her, casual things that made her just like everyone else, but when David had been born, she’d changed, hadn’t she.
And it was his fault she’d become like she had.
His personal journey had come to an end, and he still didn’t understand how the second Cheryl had been taken away from him like that. How the police had been right there as soon as that ugly dog had clamped on his arm. Mr Clever hadn’t said a word since he’d encouraged David to approach Cheryl Mark Two in the field, and he felt lost without the guidance. Abandoned. Uncared for, again. That voice had been with him for so long that the absence of it felt alien.
“Where is Sally, David?” Mother asked.
David darted his gaze around the room, then released his wrist to check he didn’t grip Sally’s hand in his. The doll wasn’t there. Reality further mixed with his dream world, and he knew the police would have his dolly now. She’d be frightened with strangers in the flat, unknown hands picking her up and inspecting her mangled face. And that reminded him of his mask, how, when he’d been taken into the police station, they’d asked him to empty his pockets and he’d laid it on the desk. The officers had glanced at one another, nodding, grim smiles stretching their faces into weird shapes, and one had said, “Fucking got him.”
“Of course they got you, David. How could you have thought they wouldn’t?” Mother asked. “It’ll all come out now, about me, you’ll see. Maybe they’ll finally find what’s left of me in that stream.”
Bones. Just bones.
She rose, that look darkening, and David braced himself for the first impact of fist on cheekbone. Then the second, a fist in his stomach, fists every-fucking-where.
He crumpled to the carpet, letting her do her thing.
“Sally,” he whispered. “I want Sally.”
* * * *
Oliver raised one hand then knocked on the door of his childhood home. Langham stood beside him on a large patio slab step, way beyond knackered, running on fumes. He didn’t think it wise for Oliver to be here—he was inviting a shitload of hurt—but it was his choice and something Oliver had said he had to do. Not something Langham fancied himself on a Sunday afternoon, but there he was, being a good mate.
The blue door swung open, and a woman—Mrs Banks, Langham presumed—filled the doorway, her mouth dropping open. Her cheeks, bearing the ruddiness of a drinker, flared redder, and her eyes darted about, the woman clearly checking up and down the street. She had a red apron on over a patterned dress, dusted with flour and what appeared to be biscuit dough, making a mockery of what a mother was supposed to be like, as in reality, she was far from that.
Langham disliked her more already.
“What do you want?” She focused her attention on Oliver. “I told you when you left I didn’t want to see your sorry arse again.”
She reminded Langham of David’s description of his mother—that diary had answered all his questions, and he’d almost, almost felt sorry for the man. To realise that David was the David who Conrad Leddings had mentioned as being the man he met for breakfast most mornings had come as a shock.
“I just…” Oliver shifted from foot to foot. “I just came to see if you were okay.”
“Of course I’m okay, you weird bastard. Why wouldn’t I be?” She narrowed her eyes and shifted her gaze from Oliver to Langham. “Look,” she said, curling her top lip as she gave him the once-over, “you ought to sod off. I have neighbours who could see you.” She stared at Oliver again. “Bad enough the pair of you are in the bloody paper, flaunting your weirdness for all to see, let alone being on my doorstep.”
She was a bitch and half, this one, but Langham would let Oliver lead, would stand beside him as support until he decided it was time to go. In Langham’s book that time was now, but Oliver didn’t seem as though he planned on walking away yet.
“How’s…?” Oliver began.
“Your sister? She’s fine. Just fuck off, will you? Fuck the hell off!”
She stepped back then slammed the door.
Oliver let out a shuddering breath. “You told me so, yeah, I know.” He turned. Brushed past Langham. Walked down the path to the car parked at the kerb. Waited at the passenger door.
Langham clicked his key fob, and Oliver got inside. Belted up. Langham was unsure whether to leave him be for a minute or two, or just join him and drive off, not saying a word. It was a difficult call.
He sighed and got in, starting the engine and peeling away. He wanted to tell Oliver that woman was the biggest cow he’d ever come across, that sometimes you encountered them in life and they amazed you with how nasty they could be. That she wasn’t worth wasting time and energy over�
��emotions over.
“That told me, didn’t it?” Oliver said, chuckling.
“It did.”
“Jesus fuck, whatever made me think she’d changed?”
“Hope,” Langham said. “It’s strong in all of us. Even people like David Courtier. His diary…well, let’s just say it would ring some bells for you.”
“Takes people differently, though, doesn’t it?” Oliver reached forward and popped open the glove box, taking out two cans of Coke Langham hadn’t even been aware were there. He opened one and put it in the cup holder for Langham, then cracked the other and took a long sip. “I mean, we’ve probably had similar childhoods, and he’s fucked up, I’m not. I don’t think.”
“You have your moments.” Langham eased into a steady stream of traffic.
His phone trilled. He swore, several different words, their volume getting louder with each one. He wished that whoever was on the phone would end the call now so he wouldn’t have to bother answering it. That someone else at the station had come along at just the right moment, giving him a reprieve. He contemplated letting it ring, saying when asked tomorrow that he hadn’t heard it go off, that fuck, he must have been out for the bloody count. But he tossed the notion aside. He couldn’t do it—didn’t have it in him.
He pulled over and took his phone from his pocket. Surely it couldn’t be Fairbrother. Surely the man could handle whatever had come in by himself.
“Langham. Right. Yep, I understand. If I come out, it’ll just be to assess the scene for an hour or so, all right? I seriously need some sleep.” He cut the call and turned to Oliver. “Got to go to work.”
“I gathered.” Oliver swiped the back of his hand across his brow. “Want company?”
“Not until—or unless—you can contribute. You know the rules. Only on the team if you’re contacted.”
“I hate that.”
“That’s the way it goes.”
“What’s happened?”
“Woman found battered. Well, two have, but it appears it’s by the same person—same MO—so while Fairbrother visits one scene, I get the other. Lucky me, eh?”