by M. G. Cole
Reading through the case notes, one fact puzzled Garrick. Fraser had booked the retreat in Hay under a false name: Ben Thornley. It was a discrepancy that nagged him until he picked up the phone and called Fraser. He was on the high-speed train to St Pancras.
“I’m not going to use me real name at an art retreat, am I?” said Fraser in a voice so low, Garrick had to turn his phone’s volume up. “They’re a bunch of wannabe artists, and if they got wind that there was a famous dealer amongst them, it’d hardly be a quiet getaway for me, would it?”
They were cut off as the train entered a tunnel, but the excuse was in line with Fraser’s ego. Garrick couldn’t imagine people would consider him famous, but then again, people were always looking to network.
That made him think back to Terri. She had studied art and had kindled Fraser’s own passion in the subject. Would she have tried to use his increasing fame in the art world to get her own foot on the ladder? But if her child wasn’t Fraser’s son, and the paternity test had proven that, what did he owe her? He couldn’t think of anything she could use to blackmail him.
By three o’clock, Garrick felt an unexpected wave of nausea hit him. He hadn’t slept very well for the last few nights and had been feeling a little lightheaded in the morning. He had put that down to stress, but now as he clutched the sink in the station washroom, he felt the room spin. Hunching over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face.
The thump of a cubicle door closing made him look sharply up. He was certain nobody had entered. He’d been concerned about anybody finding him looking like a junkie going cold turkey. The room was no longer spinning, but there were still the vestiges of motion with a slight drift to the left, which would suddenly reset, and then repeat.
The cubicle door clanged again. It hadn’t been locked, as if somebody was holding it from behind. Curious, Garrick walked over. Somebody was in there; he could see the shadows move from the gap between the floor, and he could hear the shuffle of shoes.
“Hello?” No answer. “Are you alright in there?”
The absence of any reply was unusual. This was a police station, not public washroom. If this was one of the lads trying to wind him up, then they would suddenly find themselves at the end of a temper he often kept hidden.
He pushed the door open. The cubicle was empty.
Garrick took a breath. The gentle swaying stopped. He pulled to door closed and checked the shadows. There were none.
“Shit…” he mumbled. Then took out his phone and made an urgent call.
He wanted to squint against the bright light, but Dr Rajasekar prised his eyelids open.
“Look straight ahead,” she said, so close that he could feel her breath on his ear.
After a moment, she turned the light off and sat back behind her desk to type her notes on the computer.
“Your pupils are fine. Although I wish you hadn’t driven over here. Next time, get somebody to give you a lift,” she admonished.
Rajasekar was the consultant looking after the lump in his head. She had mentioned hallucinatory side effects could be an issue if the tumour grew and pushed against his brain. He had called her straight away to book an appointment and then driven to Tunbridge Wells.
“Your blood pressure is elevated too. I put that down to stress. Let’s monitor that. You are sure you haven’t had no episodes like this before?”
Garrick shook his head, although he was wondering if that was true. He was sure his recollection was a bit off, and after receiving a phone call he had thought was from his sister – his dead sister – he was feeling uneasy. Such comments appearing on his medical file would mark the end of his career.
“I am going to book you in for another MRI. It may take a while.”
“You think it’s…” he pointed to his head.
“Let’s not leap to conclusions. That’s why I want another MRI. My instinct is telling me this is a combination of medication, stress, and a chronic lack of sleep. I’m going to prescribe you something to ensure you get some rest.”
Garrick rolled down his shirt sleeve. His arm was still tingling from the four successive blood pressure tests the doctor had given him.
“I’d rather avoid sleeping tablets.”
“It may be a choice between them, or hallucinations brought on by fatigue. What do you prefer?”
What choice did he have?
Rajasekar sent the perception off to print, then steepled her fingers under her chin as she watched him put his Barbour on.
“I am aware of how worrying something like this can be, David. Not just for the physical implications, but also career ones.”
Garrick didn’t meet her gaze. It was as if she was reading his mind.
“But it is important that you and I have an honest relationship. I am under no obligation to your employers, that is your responsibility.”
“I know.”
“So please tell me if you have any reoccurrences. Any slight doubt that you are experiencing issues. It’s purely between you and me. Your health is the most important thing.”
Garrick forced a smile. “I assure you, doctor. You will be the first to know when I start to see my victims rise from the grave.”
Rajasekar gave a gentle laugh. “Lucky for you, we all saw that on television. That was not a hallucination”
Garrick’s smile faltered. For a moment he’d blissfully forgotten that Fraser’s reappearance was on international television.
“Okay. Perhaps that was a bad example.”
Despite his reluctance to use sleeping pills, he headed up the hill to the Boots pharmacy in Royal Victoria Place to get the prescription. The pharmacist quickly processed the order and, stopping at Greggs to buy two sausage rolls, he was halfway down York Road, heading for his parked car, when a voice from behind startled him.
“David!” DCI Oliver Kane was jogging the last few steps to catch him up. “I thought it was you.”
Garrick glanced around suspiciously. The road was mostly residential, and he was yards away from the main Mount Pleasant thoroughfare.
“Yeah. Fancy bumping into you. Sorry I can’t really stop and chat. I have to be somewhere.”
“Me too. I’ll walk with you.”
Garrick’s mind was jumping from the rational to irrational in just a few short hops. Was Kane following him? Had he seen him enter his Consultant’s office, or even buy his prescription? Not that it should matter… but the timing felt wrong.
“I see your Mr Fraser is enjoying the limelight.”
“He may be a bit brusque, but if I was in his shoes, I’d probably be doing the same.”
“Would you?”
Garrick ignored the hanging question. He quickened his pace, forcing Kane to huff for breath as he spoke.
“I’d hate to be caught up in something like that. Everybody watching your every move. The pressure to crack the case must be horrendous.”
The media had made and destroyed good police reputations in their pursuit for a neatly packaged story. And it wasn’t only the press or public who wore people down. He had known good officers fall into depression as their colleagues jibed them just for being at the centre of a high-profile investigation. God help the ones who had been at the epicentre of a collapsing case. Their careers had essentially stopped there and then. But those perils happened to other people. It wouldn’t happen to David Garrick. Of that, he was sure. He’d admit to many flaws, but lack of determination was not one of them.
“So, this is where John Howard’s lockup is.” If Kane was playing games with him, he might as well do the same.
“Wish I could tell you, David. Really do. I think your input in the wider life of your friend would be most useful, but you know how it is. Somebody would point out your personal connection and that could compromise evidence.”
Garrick silently noted the two direct references to how close he and John Howard had been. He doubted that was coincidental. It was exactly the type of provocation he would use against a suspect.
“I can’t imagine you’re here just to stalk me,” Garrick gave a fake laugh.
Kane laughed too. “I was wondering if you ever picked up any parcels for Howard.”
“Not that I can think of. Why?”
“He used to source books from all over the world and used a variety of couriers. In addition, he was pushing his more macabre items for sale on the web, so…”
“I suppose the best way to ship a lamp with a shade made from human skin would be to use a reputable courier. FedEx, DHL, somebody you can rely on to get it to your customer unopened and in one piece. But I wouldn’t want to tell you how to do your job.”
“I was just asking.”
“Most of my time with John was spent in his bookshop. I can count a handful of times over the years that we met elsewhere, which I have told you already. He never came to my house. Never came to my place of work.” Garrick shrugged, there was nothing more to say.
“Did he know where you live?”
“Maybe. We didn’t send each other Christmas cards. He never came to my house or had anything delivered. I would always pick up books in person.” They reached Garrick’s car. “This is me. Can I give you a lift anywhere?” It was a disingenuous question, so he was relieved when Kane shook his head.
“No, thank you. I have a lot to do here.”
Garrick hoped that Kane’s gesture toward his consultant’s office was just coincidental. Not that his doctor would give away the slightest information, not even an admission that he was a client. Not without a search warrant. And what would Kane need one of those for?
Garrick was suddenly struck by how paranoid he was sounding. Was that another side effect he should look out for? He couldn’t remember.
He sat in his car and caught his breath. The encounter with Kane had rattled him more than he’d like to admit. He appreciated that a nuanced investigation into John Howard was required, and his own affiliation, not only as an old friend, but being instrumental in his death, had to be scrutinised. He just couldn’t fathom why Kane was being so circuitous with his questions. He was clumsily trying to tease some specific information.
He turned the engine over on the second attempt, and once again thought about getting a new car. Or at least, a slightly less elderly one. He turned the heater on full to clear the fogged windscreen. As the asthmatic wheeze came through, he scrolled through his emails. Amongst them was one from PC Fanta Liu. Nearing the end of an uneventful shift, she reported a woman entering the gallery and arguing with Mark Kline-Watson. She had attached several pictures taken from her phone’s camera.
Their body language was aggressive on both sides, and the meek-looking Kline-Watson was treating her to a black look. He couldn’t make out her face, but the woman was no pushover, and in several photos, she was coiled to strike. The last two pictures showed her storming from the gallery and returning to her car.
A white Fiat Panda City Life.
There was no mistaking Rebecca Ellis’ distinctive red coat, trailing like a savage scar against the gallery’s white brickwork.
13
“You looked dishy on TV.”
Garrick rolled his eyes, his cheeks hurting from the rictus of self-pity he had been pulling since he sat down with Wendy.
“You mean when I was completely thrown and looked terribly confused as I made an arse of myself on national television.”
“International. They played the clip on the James Corden show.”
“Wonderful.”
Wendy smiled and reached across the table to squeeze his arm. “I’m teasing. But until that moment, you came over very authoritative. And you look good in a suit.”
“It’s turning out to be an unusual case. The very type that makes you fantasise what early retirement will look like.”
“Now that’s exciting.”
Drizzle ran down the window of the Canterbury Tales pub, affording them a view across to the Marlowe Theatre where people were slowly gravitating for the evening show. Garrick was in no hurry. He was enjoying talking to Wendy. After a sluggish Friday at work, she was a welcome relief, making him smile when he didn’t feel like it. She unconsciously pulled goofy faces as she imitated people, recounting incidents at work, it was a look that he was finding adorable. And that was worrying him.
They had little in common, but Garrick suspected that was down to him not having many interests outside of crime, yet they were never stuck for a conversation. It may meander and be unfocused, but it felt natural.
“I always saw retirement as a long way off,” she said, sipping her house white wine.
“To be honest, I’d never considered it before.” He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, watching the liquid swirl back and forth. “When my sister died, all I wanted to do was get back to work.” He noticed her silence and glanced at her. Wendy was watching him sympathetically. She had dropped a few probing questions on prior dates, but he had never risen to the bait. For a fleeting moment he felt like unloading his inner torment, but looking at her, anticipating an evening ahead of mindless entertainment, he decided not to bring the tone down. He forced a smile. “That makes me sound as boring as my fossil collection.”
She laughed. “And when do I get to see this infamous collection?”
“Oh, you’ll be disappointed. It’s very much in single figures,” he chuckled, before realising he had missed the possible hidden-meaning of her comment. Intrigued, he glanced up at her. She was now looking at the theatre as more people arrived. The moment, if there really had been one, had gone.
“Tell me what life was like this time last year.” Wendy swirled her glass and peered at him from over the rim. Overtly personal questions were something they had both tactfully stepped around. Garrick sensed this one was more pointed than usual.
“Very similar.” His oblique answer failed to get a reaction.
“How has a man like you reach such a wise old age without attempting it? Marriage, I mean.”
“Oh. I’m not that old…”
“41. It’s on your Heartfelt profile.”
Garrick wondered if putting his age on the dating app had been a good idea. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Are we talking a deep tragedy here? Just so we can avoid it. After all, you are the strong brooding type.”
“I am?”
“Clearly.” She sipped her drink and peered into the middle-distance. “Or are their children in some far-flung city that you’ve never got to know because you married to your job?” She gave a playful smile, but her words were serious. “Were they a series of ships passing in the night, or are we talking about hitting a few icebergs here?”
“I’ve had two long relationships, both without children, both without incident.” He hated himself for such a placid confession; especially as it wasn’t completely true. “I suppose I never made the steps to make the relationships anymore more than they were… and as a result they just fizzled out.”
“Fizzled?”
He tried to convince himself that she was satisfied with the answer. “What about your dark history?”
She laughed. “Oh, icebergs the entire way!” They both laughed. She took another sip, then put down her glass and smiled. “So how much do you think you’ll hate the show tonight? On a scale of one to ten?”
He held up both hands defensively. “Whoa. I could love it.”
“It’s about a bumbling detective who sings.”
“And how do you know I don’t sing when I’m on a case?”
She feigned a look of injury. “Ow! Haven’t your poor victims suffered enough?”
“I can hold a note.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Karaoke style?” She must have seen the colour drain from his face because she burst out laughing again; a long genuine snort, which she became self-conscious of but couldn’t stop. “Sorry. So sorry, but the horror on your face…”
“I have to draw some lines
in the sand.”
“Well, now I know.” She giggled, then shifted in her seat. “I had an idea.” Garrick just gave a little uh-huh under his breath, not wanting to see what other punishment she was planning to mete out. “I’m going on a ramble this Sunday. An organised group of about twelve of us across the Downs. I just wondered…”
“Exercise?” gasped Garrick.
Wendy shrugged. “I mean, either that or karaoke.”
He watched the mischief twinkle in her eyes. The corner of her mouth was resisting a playful smile. She cocked her head, demanding an answer.
“Or am I to take it that that you lofty television celebs don’t mingle with us commoners?”
Garrick leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine, hoping that he was giving off an air of nonchalance, when the very idea of a ramble in the countryside appealed to him.
“Naturally.” He pretended to reluctantly consider it. “Although I suppose my presence there would lift proceedings accordingly.”
She clasped both hands together in a mocking plea, accompanied by one of the worst West Country accents Garrick had heard. “That’s just what I was hoping, sir. Just a little time with us working class peasants.”
They both cackled at the innocent absurdity of their actions. It felt as if a wave of relief suddenly flowed through Garrick, expunging the pent-up tension and anger he had been harbouring for months. Perhaps longer. For a moment there was a flash of unrestrained child-like behaviour, an opportunity to ignore the distractions of adult life.
Wendy finished her wine and pointedly placed the glass down. “I shall take that as a yes.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m going to the bathroom to give you a last chance to bail before we go in.” She cocked a finger towards the theatre.
Garrick watched her go to the back of the bar, disappearing behind a throng of noisy revellers. And just then, it didn’t feel such an ordeal to go to the theatre. Not that he’d enjoy the show.
“I heard you humming along,” accused Wendy as she put up her compact umbrella to fend off the increasing rain.
“You’re hearing things,” Garrick replied guiltily.