57
Redmond and the Elephant
58
Bad news
Marsh had been delivering bad news all his life. He had heard other cops say, ‘You never get used to it,’ but he had. It was all about putting on an act. It was his duty to be professional about it. You might have wanted to say, ‘Actually I don’t give a damn about your husband. He was a head-case and you’re better off without him,’ but you couldn’t, so you just played it straight. Official. Maybe it came across as cold, but that’s the way it had to be. Because every head-case had a mother or brother. And for every head-case there was one innocent kid, one paragon, one saint or scholar in the wrong place, wrong time, and breaking that kind of news could absolutely break your heart, if you let it. Marsh didn’t. He put up a shield. The thing was, sometimes he forgot to lower it again.
When his wife went to hospital that last time, they kept him in a waiting room while they fought to save her. It was a useless, pointless battle. She’d been trying to surrender for months. But at the end, when the doctor came out, and he gave his spiel, all platitudes and stutters, Marsh had nearly slammed him against the wall, nearly yelled, ‘You f***ing amateur, that’s not how it’s done.’
Now here he was again, outside the smart bungalow in Bangor West. As soon as he stopped the car a policewoman came hurrying up; she’d been there for a while, trying to keep out of sight so that the family inside wouldn’t guess and come wailing out. Marsh would have preferred to do it by himself, but there were regulations. Something about a woman being there was supposed to make it easier.
The boy’s name was Michael Caldwell. Fifteen years old. Still at the local grammar school.
A nice home. Photos of the kids - there were two brothers, one sister - all over the walls. The mother, Irene, was in bits; the dad was holding it together better, but his eyes were red.
They’d known that this day would come. He was a good boy, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without calling, would never stay out all night, certainly not four nights.
Then the body on the news.
It’s a boy. A teenager.
The sheer horror.
They sat Jimmy Mallow down in the lounge and he explained methodically where the investigation was at, that it was possible the boy had drowned before he was dismembered, that it could conceivably have been an accident, perhaps even an industrial accident of some kind, but that in the meantime they were treating it as a murder investigation.
That seemed to give them a little hope - that somehow their son had died first, and that it might not have been a bloody, gruesome end.
They talked about him as if he was still alive. What he wanted to be. How school was. His favourite movies. How addicted he’d been to his X-Box.
It wasn’t just to break the bad news, this visit was to collect photographs, and to clear the way for Marsh to send his detectives in and then they could ask the really hard questions. Because even as he looked at them, for all the world a family in the midst of grief, he had to consider the possibility that they might have killed him. They might have all got together to kill their son. Or the dad might have had a row with him and drowned him in the bath. Or the mum might have had a stand-up fight and clubbed him with a vase. Stranger things had happened. You never ruled out anything. Ever.
The doorbell went, and a Minister came in. Marsh took this opportunity to make his excuses and leave. He nodded at his colleague; she would wait behind, smooth the way for the detectives when they arrived. He shook hands gravely with the Minister in the hallway. Marsh went outside with the photos. He flicked through them on his way down to the car. Michael Caldwell had been a good-looking boy, blond hair cut short, a cheeky grin.
If this was a movie, Marsh thought, it would be my last case, the one I had to solve before retiring. But it wasn’t a movie, and it wouldn’t be his last case. However, he’d crack it. His strike rate was good, and he had a good team.
As he approached the gates he saw that someone had placed a bunch of flowers there since his arrival. He stopped for a moment, then bent and examined the card. It said, Good lad, Michael, we‘ll miss you. Carl, Alan, Bix. Marsh repeated the names to himself. They would be checked out. The florist would be tracked down. Sometimes the devil was in the detail.
Then his name was called from behind, and he straightened as the mother hurried down the drive.
‘Superintendent. Thank you for coming to see us. Yourself. Personally.’
‘It’s no problem, Mrs Caldwell. Just sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news.’
She nodded, folded her arms, took a deep breath, tried to hold back the tears. ‘We’re a Christian family, Superintendent. I will forgive whoever has done this.’
Marsh nodded.
‘But I have to know who it is and why they did it.’
‘We’ll find out.’
‘He was only a baby.’
‘I know.’
‘Why would somebody do that?’
‘There’s a million reasons, Mrs Caldwell.’
She stared at the ground. No make-up, her hair all over the place. ‘I want him back,’ she said quietly.
‘It’ll be a few days before—’
‘I mean all of him. Every bit.’
‘We’ll find him.’
‘Do I have your word?’
He wanted to tell her that his word was valueless. That it meant nothing.
‘We’ll do our best.’
‘He was our youngest. Didn’t expect to have him. We spoiled him.’
Marsh sighed. ‘We always do.’ He nodded, then turned back to the car. She stood and watched him drive away. In the mirror he saw her husband come out and begin to guide her back towards the house.
Marsh had set the photos on the passenger’s seat. Face-up. When he stopped at the first set of traffic-lights, he turned them over.
59
Smoke on the Water
‘So what line are you in anyway?’
Linda Wray was standing with Walter on the veranda of the penthouse apartment at Towerview. He’d decided to take a second look, this time without Bertha.
‘Is she not well?’ Linda had asked.
‘Tae kwon do class,’ said Walter.
She looked at him as he gazed out over Belfast. She wasn’t sure if he was winding her up.
‘Tae kwon do?’
‘Aye.’
So she didn’t pursue it. There was something attractive about this Walter North. He was reasonably quiet, but quite sharp when he did open his mouth. His clothes were understated. He wasn’t unkempt, neither was he overly groomed, like so many of the moneyed men she encountered these days. He was just … normal. And he had money to spend.
‘Line?’ asked Walter. ‘Oh - bit of this, bit of that.’ He held her gaze for a moment, then abruptly broke it. He flushed a little and in keeping with his new policy of not lying through his teeth said, ‘Actually, I work in the Department of Education in Bangor.’
‘Oh right.’
‘But the big plan is to move into property. Always been fascinated by it.’
‘Well, it’s a good investment. The prices are shooting up.’
Walter nodded down at the Lagan. ‘I see they’ve moved the body. Can’t have been good for sales.’
She smiled. ‘A nightmare.’
‘Do you see they’ve started putting flowers down there?’ He pointed, and she saw that about a dozen bunches were spread out along a 100-yard stretch of the riverbank. ‘That all started with the Princess Diana thing, didn’t it? I mean, in a big way, putting flowers down at the death scene. Now anyone who pops their clogs, and it’s like the Chelsea Flower Show. Wouldn’t surprise me if the flower companies got together and knocked her off themselves. Here we are, all looking at vast conspiracy theories, and it’s some tulip-grower from Amsterdam responsible.’
Put a sock in it.
Walter gripped the handrail. He just had to learn when to be quiet. Inscrutable. Not blabber away like an eejit
. He was sure Donald Trump didn’t run off at the mouth like that. Or if he did, he did it because he could afford to do it. If he’d run off at the mouth like that when he’d started out, he wouldn’t have got anywhere. So zip it. Be businesslike. He glanced across at Linda Wray. She was biting down on her lower lip, as if she was trying to stop herself from saying ‘Shut the f**k up.’
‘Sorry,’ Walter began. ‘Hope I didn’t—’
She waved a hand at him. ‘No, it’s just that you mentioned Princess Diana - and that always brings a lump to my throat. You see, I got married the day of her funeral. It cast a gloom over the entire day, which never really lifted. We barely lasted a year and a half.’
Walter nodded.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Linda, ‘I’m really sorry. You’re trying to buy an apartment and I’m rabbiting on about my crap marriage and non-existent lovelife. Come on, I’ll show you the bedroom.’
She stopped suddenly, they looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
‘What am I like!’
‘It’s fine - honestly.’
‘I’m really sorry. It’s been a long day. Just one more appointment. But I could murder a fag.’
‘Feel free.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course.’
She took the pack from her handbag and offered him one. He shook his head.
‘Then I won’t,’ she said.
‘No, seriously, it’s fine.’
She lit up, inhaled deeply, held onto it, then slowly exhaled. ‘It’s a disgusting habit,’ she said.
Walter shrugged. ‘We’ve all got disgusting habits,’ he said. Then he thought he’d better qualify that. ‘I’ve been on a diet since Monday. You should see the crap I used to get through.’
‘You’re on a diet? Why?’
He patted his tummy. ‘This is why.’
‘That’s not so bad.’
‘It’s hardly Brad Pitt.’
‘Nobody is Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt probably isn’t Brad Pitt. His six-pack is probably a special effect.’
The doorbell rang. Linda looked at her watch, then, panic-stricken, threw her cigarette over the side. ‘Christ,’ she said, ‘I’m running late. That’s my next appointment.’
‘But I haven’t finished.’
‘I know. I know - of course you haven’t. I just hate showing two parties round together. It’s always awkward.’
‘I could hang around until they’re gone.’
She looked at him. Was he interested in the apartment, or her, or both? Did she want him hanging around waiting? What if he was a serial killer?
He looked at her. Why had he said that? The apartment was nice, but it wasn’t that nice. It was Linda. But what if she was as mad as a bag of spiders?
The doorbell rang again.
‘If you really don’t mind waiting,’ said Linda.
‘It’s no problem. But maybe I should pretend that I’m leaving, and then I’ll hang about downstairs till they go. On the way out now, will I sound like I’m dead interested? Maybe that’ll make them keener to buy.’
Linda, laughing, shook her head as she ushered him towards the door. He was funny. He gave her a conspiratorial wink as she opened the door. ‘Well, thank you very much, it’s a wonderful apartment, let me talk to my people.’ He pumped her hand enthusiastically then turned to say hello to her incoming clients.
Walter stopped dead.
‘Hello, Walter,’ said Margaret.
60
Walter & Margaret & Linda
Linda looked from Margaret Gilmore to Walter North. Walter looked from Margaret to Linda and back. Margaret glared at Walter, smiled apologetically at Linda and then looked back to Walter.
‘You know each other?’ Linda asked.
‘I thought we did,’ said Walter.
Margaret tutted. ‘Never mind him. We went on a date once, it didn’t work out.’
‘Because you had sex with your husband!’
‘Because you spent three nights in my bedroom while I was in a coma!’
Linda swallowed. This was a bit weird. The pair of them were staring angrily at each other. ‘Do you want me to give you some time alone?’
‘No!’ they both said at once.
‘Well, Mrs Gilmore, would you like me to show you the—’
‘I want it,’ said Walter.
‘I’m sorry?’ Linda asked.
‘I want to buy the apartment. I’m putting an offer in. Take it off the market, please.’
‘Well, that’s very … but ahm, you would need to, you know, make a formal offer and—’
‘I want it now. I’ll pay the asking price.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘That’s pathetic,’ she said.
‘What’s pathetic?’ Walter snapped.
‘Pretending to buy this apartment just to piss me off.’
‘Don’t overrate yourself, missus, I’m buying it because I like it.’
Margaret smiled sarcastically. ‘Yeah. Sure.’
‘Yeah, sure yourself.’
‘Well,’ said Linda. ‘If you’re serious—’
‘Of course I’m serious,’ snapped Walter.
‘Then I’ll communicate that to my boss.’
‘Good. Then take it off the market, please.’
‘I can’t do that, not until—’
‘That’s the condition of my offer. It’s the full asking price. A definite sale. Now, please, take it off the market.’
‘Pathetic,’ repeated Margaret.
‘I can’t - until I confirm it with my boss.’ This was too weird, Linda thought.
‘Well, do that.’
‘I’d like to see the apartment,’ said Margaret.
‘No way,’ hissed Walter.
‘I might make a higher offer,’ said Margaret.
She was half-smiling. There was smoke coming out of Walter’s ears. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he was mad. Mad because he’d forgotten about her and now here she was, like a sign from God, and his tummy was churning, and she had led him on, made him think there was a chance and then laughed in his face by screwing her half-wit husband right in front of him.
‘Look at the f***ing thing then!’ Walter shouted. He stormed out into the hall; Margaret had to move sharply to one side to avoid him.
Linda called after him, ‘Walter - Mr North! Are you serious about this offer?’
‘Yes!’ he called back as he angrily jabbed the lift button. His face was burning.
Margaret emerged thirty minutes later. She had barely been able to concentrate on the apartment. Especially when they went out onto the veranda and saw Walter leaning on the fence by the river. Margaret had apologised already to the estate agent, but now that they could see Walter, she felt the need to do it again. But she added, ‘We hardly know each other.’
‘It happens,’ said Linda. ‘And also, men are such bloody eejits.’
Margaret nodded.
‘He seemed so nice, though,’ said Linda. ‘Then just to explode like that.’
‘Well, I don’t really blame him.’
‘Do you think he really wants this place? You don’t seem that keen.’
‘It’s nice, but it’s not for me. I don’t know about Walter.’ Margaret sighed. ‘I’ll go and talk to him.’
Margaret had heels on, so Walter was bound to be able to hear her approaching, but he didn’t turn. She stood beside him at the railings.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t have bothered what?’
‘Getting me all these flowers.’
He continued to stare at the water. ‘They’re not for you. This is where that boy was washed up with his head and hands and legs cut off.’
‘Oh,’ said Margaret. ‘I thought it was some sort of council initiative.’ She watched him. Then she put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, this is silly. I’m sorry for what happened.’
Walter shrugged.
‘And if I try to explain, it’ll just make m
atters worse. I made a mistake. I am not back with my husband. I will never be with him again.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Walter. Come on. You sat by my bed all that time.’
‘That was then, this is now.’
‘Walter.’
‘Margaret.’
‘What can I do to change things?’
Walter shrugged.
‘Come on.’
‘Jump in the river.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re serious, jump in the river.’
‘This river?’
‘This river. Right now. Just jump in.’
‘Walter, we’ve only ever been on one date, and that was a disaster. I’m not jumping in a river for you.’
‘Okay. Please yourself.’ Walter turned and began to walk away. He felt good and strong and superior.
‘Hey!’ He stopped, looked back. Margaret was perched precariously on top of the fence, like a woman who had never seen a horse before trying to ride side-saddle.
‘I’ll do it!’ she shouted.
‘Okay.’
‘Come back here and talk to me sensibly. For Christ’s sake, we’re both adults.’
He started to walk again.
‘Walter!’
When he looked back she was gingerly lowering herself over the side of the fence. She set one sharp heel down on the shiny cobble of the man-made riverbank, but it immediately slid out from under her. She gave a little shriek, then skidded down the bank on her arse and went feet-first into the river.
Walter stood stunned for a moment, then charged across. He vaulted over the fence, but kept one hand on top so that when he landed he was able to stay upright. He carefully stepped down the bank and held his hand out to Margaret, who was sitting in the water, which was only a foot deep so close to the bank, beating it and screaming, ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’
When she paused for breath, he said quietly: ‘Do you want a hand?’
I Predict a Riot Page 24