The night is still with no wind to displace him, and so he stands on the edge, toes over the edge, unperturbed, and stays like that for what seemed like a long time, blinking in the lights and taking in the freezing darkness. He takes some items from inside his jacket and clutches them – three polaroid pictures and a sheaf of papers. He lights a cigarette lighter so he can look at them. Three polaroid pictures: one of Jason Hardman, one of Chelsea McAllister, one of Stuart Killy’s foot. There is still a chance to save Stuart, perhaps, if he ends things now. He lets the photos fall, one by one, and they flit down to the water below. The tiny flame from the cigarette lighter now reveals the title of his sheaf of papers.
‘Spontaneous versus artificial mutation of the OS1 gene: a soteriological approach’ by Andrew Shepherd, PhD
He applies the flame to the dog-eared corner of the papers, and watches them burn to nothing, until he is forced to drop the dying embers as they scald his fingers. Behind him the wrought iron of the bridge proper is black against a yellow sky, and he heads towards his own iron gate. He leans forward until there is no going back, and falls. Calmly, his body drops through the night. Limp and heavy it takes both forever and no time at all on its journey to the freezing black waters below.
***
Mikko and Helen lay facing each other in the bed, arms across each other uncertainly. The curtains were open and the infernal red flashing of the neon sign above their room, coupled with the city lights, provided enough for them to see the shapes of each other’s features and expressions.
‘So,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know what to say now. How was it for you? I guess?’
‘It was….I liked it. I’m sorry I didn’t really know what I was doing.’
‘You were perfect. Actually it was my first time too. With someone I actually like, that is.’
Helen was mortified in so many different ways. For once Mikko was quiet and still, but she felt that to not talk now would be much worse than to talk. She was so racked by different emotions that she again felt as if she was floating above the situation. She had a sudden urge to tell him something else about herself, perhaps to make herself seem a little more interesting.
‘There was another time, you know. But not with a man.’
‘What?’ He shuffled his body in closer. ‘No way. Lesbian nuns? Tell me everything.’
And so she told him. It was another confession with no priest, no box, no curtain. She was looking at him but she was no longer in the room, she was back in the retreat, almost ten years ago, in that damp bedroom with the motorway traffic rushing by outside. She had passed the novice stage, the aspirant stage, worked her way through the different coloured habits, the different levels of commitment, the different levels of sacrifice. Now she was at the novitiate stage, aged twenty-two years old, and preparing to take her full vows. She was struggling with it of course, as everybody did, and Deaconess Margaret suggested they go to the retreat for a couple of days, for a change of scenery, to clear her head. Unlike other aspirants, Helen had little family with whom to discuss the huge sacrifice she was planning to make; her mother could only murmur assent. And although the Deaconess was at pains to avoid pointing it out, she was far younger than any other recent aspirants, had lived very little of her life already, which made the sacrifice even greater.
The retreat was in the Pennines, an hour and a half or so by car from Argarmeols. Helen had expected it to be a larger institution, a place for groups from other religious orders perhaps. But it turned out to be just a house, and it was just the two of them, a sort of extended counselling session. They prayed, and walked, and prayed, and walked, and studied the retreat’s library of Calvinist texts: Charles Spurgeon, the Genevan Psalter, the Canons of Dort. It was a hot, sultry July, and they would sit in the garden with their books. The second evening they even walked to a nearby pub, and the Deaconess allowed them to have a glass of wine each. And later that evening, when it was time to sleep, the Deaconess had suggested that they stay together, so that she could be with Helen through the night during her spiritual crisis.
Margaret had a way of making her do things, of rationalising everything. She said it was God speaking through her, giving Helen her final temptation before the time came. The same temptations seemed to be able to come from either God or Satan depending on her point of view. And it was such a relief, such a comfort, to finally be held in someone’s arms after all those years of loneliness; to touch bare, warm, soft flesh and be touched back. To be wanted, to do things she didn’t even know people did, to give herself up to someone and be led to pleasure. She found herself in a place beyond unease, beyond reality, where she was able to manage events by stepping outside her own body and watching them unfold as if they were happening to someone else.
In the morning she and the Deaconess returned to Argarmeols, and a few days later Helen took her final vows. During those last days of her novitiate, as the countdown to her sacrifice began, a part of her was willing someone, her mother, the Deaconess, anyone, to come forward and try to save her from herself. And she imagined that if they did, she would fight them, insist on the necessity of her martyrdom, her marriage to God. But no-one did, and she tried to brush aside the feeling that it was a sort of conspiracy. The Deaconess needed her to bring new blood into the Order, and of course there were great celebrations, even a press release, a photograph in the Crosby Herald. Meanwhile her mother needed Helen’s continued self-blame to validate her own existence. And so Helen’s childish rebellion against the possibility of her own happiness was allowed to take place.
The encounter between Margaret and Helen was never openly spoken of again. From then on, Margaret was almost unwavering in her natural severity towards Helen, and Helen craved her harshness like a drug. Margaret occasionally alluded to that night, skirted around the possibility of it happening again, but Helen never allowed herself to be drawn on the subject. To incur the Deaconess’s wrath was part of her continued rebellion against herself.
‘You cannot leave me like this, I need more details about this incident.’
‘Mikko, it’s not funny. And I’m not going to give you any more details. Perhaps there was some romance in it at the time – the summer heat, the enormity of my situation – but it was hardly Mills and Boon stuff. I mean, the retreat is just this little white cottage which would be in a beautiful setting, except you can see it from the M6 – there’s a constant roar of traffic. You will have driven past it yourself on your way up to Newcastle.’
‘I mean, I have to be honest with you, that image, of you and that strict Deaconess together, is gonna get me through the next tour. Fuck.’ He shook his head, smiling, lit a cigarette and drew deeply. ‘But at the same time, it’s kind of dark. You were vulnerable, and she manipulated you. In a lot of ways. I hate that she locked you away.’
‘I locked myself away. And now I suppose I have let myself out. Like the contents of Pandora’s box.’ As she said it she glimpsed at the black snake tattoo that coiled around his upper body. She lay on her back and looked up at the ceiling.
‘What have I done Mikko?’
When she woke in the morning he was still asleep, his back turned, and she traced the images on his back with the gossamer touch of her finger tips. When she got to the double-headed axe on his neck she drew back. She had broken all three of her vows the previous day, and in the cold light of dawn she was appalled at herself. Did I do it because I know I am safe, one of the elect, she wondered. Because if so, then I am a monster.
***
Spirits were low in Swift’s incident room at Crosby police station. Six weeks had passed since the discovery of Jason Hardman’s body, and since then there had been only bad news. A murdered girl, a premature baby that was either murdered or abducted, a severed foot, at least one missing person, who knew how many more. And not a trace of Andrew Shepherd, their prime suspect, indeed their only suspect. He had seemingly vanished. His trail, which had had such momentum those first few days of the trace, had end
ed abruptly at Stuart Killy’s flat, and since then no sightings, no credit card usage, no communications – nothing.
The buzz of October and November had gradually subsided to a low hum, as officers worked on vague trails with an increasing despondence, the missing baby having shaken everyone.
Swift studied the incident board he had been so proud of a few weeks ago. His ‘persons of interest’ now seemed truly pathetic – nuns, guitarists, ex-colleagues from decades before – none of it had got them anywhere.
He turned to face everyone. ‘Right, lads, what have we got? Anything yet on the baby – hospitals, GPs?’
‘Nothing in the North West.’
‘Broaden it to UK-wide then.’
‘Boss, are we still not planning to put out an announcement on the missing baby?’
‘We’re still working on the theory that revealing we know could draw a kidnapper deeper into hiding. But I’m torn, since we’re not getting anywhere. Let me talk to Canter.’
He hated that he needed advice from a superior on this.
‘Right, moving on to Stuart Killy. Anything?’
Colette said, ‘No trace of his phone, nothing on his laptop. There was a Bible and a few other religious books in his apartment, but no-one knows of a relationship with Shepherd. None of his neighbours have heard from him since the beginning of November. It sounds like he’s been a real loner since coming out of prison, though. He missed his last appointment with the probation officer which was two days before we found the foot. Since the tag was still showing in his apartment it wasn’t followed up.’
‘CCTV find anything yet?’
‘We’re still looking, but it’s a huge job.’
‘As you all know,’ Swift said, ‘it’s a race against time with Killy, he could still be alive. And of course if that baby is alive it may need urgent medical attention.’
What they all knew was that there had been a time lag between the disappearances of Jason and Chelsea and their deaths, which meant that they had been held somewhere alive. So there was still a chance that Stuart Killy was alive, even if his being a suspect or an accomplice of Shepherd was unlikely.
Tracey put up her hand. ‘Before we wrap up – I feel awful but… Christmas party. We always do it in the Angel function room, and it’s two weeks on Friday. Just so you know, boss, since you’re part of the team this year. And it’s plus ones as well. You know, partners allowed.’
The usual banter ensued. ‘Who are you bringing Dave?’
‘He’s got a waiting list, haven’t you, lad?’
‘Fuck off, I’m bringing yer ma.’
‘Right,’ said Swift, clapping his hands together to signal the meeting was over, ‘any of yous fancy coming along while I pay a visit to our old friend Max Killy?’
‘Meathead? Rather you than me, boss.’
‘Thanks. Come ’ed, Colette.’
***
‘Look at this – it’s all over the British newspapers.’ Mikko and Helen were at Nice airport, and he picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror, which was running the headline ‘Liverpool serial killer: organised crime link.’ Mikko skimmed the article which ran onto the second page.
‘Apparently there’s another missing person, and he’s linked to some local mafia family. The Killys? Man, you English people have some weird names. Someone cut off his foot… Jesus. So – what does that mean for our… quest?’
Helen didn’t know what it meant, and would need to process the myriad aspects of it, but right now she was relieved to have a distraction from the tension between her and Mikko. She was racked with guilt and an unbearable, wistful sadness at the immensity of what she had done and the thought that now she must – absolutely must – go back. She was filled with dread at the idea that she was now guilty of this antinomianism she had lectured about.
Mikko’s flight to Oslo was now being called.
‘It’s gonna be fucking freezing back in Norway, oh my God. Are you really going back to the Order then?’ She nodded, almost apologetically. He moved in close to her, to embrace her, but she shrank back. And then he did that stamping thing with his foot, in frustration this time.
‘See, this is where God comes in. This is where the guilt comes in. See, this is the part I don’t understand. I can’t help you with that any more, Helen. We did what we did, and there was nothing bad about it. Nobody got hurt, nobody…’ He trailed off in frustration, and turned to walk away but came back.
‘So, here’s the thing about your God. Your Calvinist God. He’s a fucking asshole. Calvinism is basically religion with all the fun bits taken out. No music, no rituals, no confession, no chance of redemption. We had fun this weekend right? And you still believe in God? So switch to a different religion.’
Helen couldn’t help but smile:
‘God is an asshole. I’m not sure that attitude is going to help you get to heaven, Mikko.’
‘Well, according to your religion, the asshole has already decided for me. I could spend the rest of my life washing people’s feet or whatever, and I’m still headed to the fiery pits. Look, I’m just saying that they haven’t destroyed you yet, it’s not too late. I saw that spark. I’m in Oslo now until the middle of December, then we’re back in London performing at this fucking, Satanic Christmas Festival or whatever. I guess you won’t be coming to that. But you know, if you do…’
Helen was desperate for him to walk away through that aeroplane gate before she was tempted to change her mind. She would pray, and God would tell her what to do. For once in her life please let Him tell her the right thing to do.
15.
Litherland Muscle Gym took up the whole first floor of a six-unit commercial strip in this run-down district behind the docks, not far from Chelsea McAllister’s and Jason Hardman’s houses. The units had once included a fish-and-chip shop, newsagent, butcher, and solicitor’s office, which had together provided a community focal point of sorts. But now these were boarded up with metal shutters daubed in fluorescent graffiti. All that remained open was a tanning salon of dubious legitimacy. The streets around were dotted with odd businesses – scrap metal, car workshops, construction yards, a taxi firm, a laundrette – that may or may not have been connected to the Killy family empire. Despite its insalubrious location, this gym acted as the unofficial headquarters for one of the biggest cocaine and ecstasy networks in Europe.
Swift and Quinn parked their car on the almost-deserted street. A winter mist had descended upon Liverpool that afternoon, shrouding the container cranes that hung on the skyline like blue and yellow ghosts.
‘Boss,’ asked Colette as they crossed the street. ‘Aren’t you supposed to ask Canter before you deal with the Killys? I thought we were supposed to give them a wide berth?’
‘Fuck that. She told me to follow the rule book, so that’s what I’m doing. Missing person means you interview the relatives. And anyway there’s nothing in the manuals about Canter’s cosy relationship with drug barons.’
‘How d’you know he’s even here?’
They entered the building and headed up the staircase to the gym, from which emanated the echoed smacking and grunting sounds of someone engaged in a heavy work-out.
‘He’s always here during the day, it’s his office. I had a few run-ins with him when I was on the drugs squad. Would you believe this fella doesn’t have a conviction to his name, in fact I don’t think he’s ever even been questioned at a police station. One day. Here we go.’
They raised their eyebrows at each other before entering the gym, a long low room that was filled with exercise machines and weight-lifting equipment, completely devoid of clients. In front of them hung a punch bag that was being viciously attacked by a bald-headed, thick-necked, squat man. He wore Liverpool football shorts, boxing boots and gloves, and his orange-tanned muscular torso glistened with sweat. Around his neck hung two gold crosses. Standing next to him was a tall, blonde girl in a sports bra and tiny shorts, holding a clipboard, who appeared to be his personal trainer
. The only other people in the room were two bald and burly men, almost identical to Max Killy, who leaned against the wall arms folded, wearing black polo shirts emblazoned with the gym’s logo. Darren knew them to be Killy’s bodyguards. Behind a glass wall was a small office, at which a man in a suit sat behind a desk having a heated telephone conversation. This was the Killys’ lawyer, another character with whom Swift had had past dealings.
Max Killy eyed Darren briefly but didn’t look surprised, and didn’t stop his violent exercise routine. He spoke with a Liverpool accent so strong as to be affected, more so since he enunciated every syllable slowly and clearly.
‘Detective Inspector Darren Swift. To what do I owe this pleasure? Tell me you’ve found me nephew.’
‘Hello again, Mr Killy. No, not yet. We’ve come to ask you a f—’
‘Sorry, I can’t hear yer. Speak up,’ Killy shouted over the noise of his punches and kicks. Darren cleared his throat and squirmed internally. He knew the game – Killy was a master at making you feel uncomfortable.
‘We’ve come to ask you a few questions about your nephew, in case there’s anything that could help us find him.’
Killy continued to focus on the punch bag, and Darren used the wait as an opportunity to examine the man’s tattoos. Amongst the anchors, snakes, roses, and stylised names of his children, there were numerous weapons on display on this contoured body – guns, a dagger, a cartoon bomb – but no visible axe. Killy finally stopped exercising, threw down his gloves and held out his hands for a water bottle and towel that were handed to him by the girl. He walked over to Darren and stood squarely in front of him, several inches shorter but so intimidatingly close that Darren was forced to inhale the humidity of Killy’s sweat. They looked each other in the eyes and then Killy moved sideways to stand eye-to-eye with Colette.
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