‘It’s me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m in.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None.’
‘Good.Then get to work.’
3
Five weeks before
The end of October. Halloween mists and denuded trees. A day that, to all intents and purposes, had started like any other. But Tom, in hindsight, felt it was anything but.
A staunch rationalist, he had always dismissed the slightest hint of superstition. But as he looked out of his bedroom window that morning, part of him – the part that had been awakened by and responded to the untamed, isolated world around him, the part that had allowed the beliefs of locals to influence or at least commingle with his own – was tempted to think there were no coincidences, only omens.
The crows had returned.
Always present to some degree, they now circled the house cawing and screeching, swooping and diving, as if singling Tom out for special treatment. Sitting in the leafless autumn trees, charcoal against the grey sky, like the backdrop to a folk horror movie. The rational part of him dismissed such thoughts as pagan, as voodoo nonsense. But it was a hard unease to shift. The crows were reminding him of what happened seven months before. And with that memory came the unnerving feeling that he had somehow escaped censure for his part in those events. Or at least deferred it. But payment, he felt, would fall due.
He tried to dismiss such thoughts, or at least reduce them to an irritation, noise at the back of his mind. He went downstairs to get on with the day.
Lila was up and about before him. He came into the kitchen to find her eating a slice of toast with butter and Marmite, drinking a mug of tea, and packing her rucksack at the same time.
‘Just look after yourself,’ he said, ‘don’t mind me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ she said through a mouthful of bread, ‘you’re never up at this time.’
‘Neither are you. Is this a college day?’
‘You know it is. Why you even asking?’
Tom thought for a second. ‘Sorry. Bad dream. Dragged it into the morning with me. Can’t remember what day it is.’
‘You’re getting old,’ she said, taking a gulp of tea. ‘Right. Got to catch the bus. Laters, taters.’
She ruffled his hair as he sat down, picked up her rucksack, and was gone. He smiled as she left. It didn’t last long. The slam of the door echoed away to nothing.
His dream. He couldn’t remember what it had been about. Just that feeling that something dark and foreboding was gathering like storm clouds. And he was caught in the middle. Then on waking he had seen the crows. Or maybe the crows had wormed their way into his dream, darkening it, wakening him. Omens, Pearl would say. Don’t mess with the omens.
He stood up, shaking superstitious nonsense out of his mind and put the kettle on to make coffee.
Seven months since he had come back from work on a freezing, wet night and found the seventeen-year-old Lila shivering, starving and soaking in his kitchen, on the run from an abusive family, a vicious boyfriend, in genuine fear for her life. Seven months since he had made a decision to help her, putting his own life in danger. Seven months since those events led to the village he had come to call home losing its collective mind in the grip of a murderously deranged demagogue. Tom had helped to pull things back from the brink, but life in the surrounding area wouldn’t be the same for a long time. Not now that neighbours had glimpsed the skulls under their own skins.
In the aftermath he had asked Lila to move in with him. She needed safety, stability and had nowhere else to go. In doing so, the pair attempted to create some kind of functioning family unit from their mutual dysfunction. On the whole, it had been a positive experience, Tom trying to take his position as the girl’s surrogate father, or at least uncle, as lightly as possible. They were a good fit; both damaged, both trying to move forwards, hoping in doing so it would help the other. Keeping each other’s demons at bay. For the present.
Lila was now taking A levels at Truro College. Tom still worked the bar at the Sailmakers pub in St Petroc. Trying to live as normal a life as possible. He hoped it would last but suspected it wouldn’t. In his experience nothing good did.
He was right.
*
It happened before lunchtime, before he was due to leave for work. A knock on the door. Tom was sitting in an armchair reading a book, listening to music, a mug of tea by his hand. He stood up, went to answer it. Heard a crow cawing outside.
‘Mister . . . Killgannon?’ The pause just long enough to inform him: I know your real name. And to give an implicit order: don’t play games.
‘Who are you?’ A shudder went through Tom.
The stranger smiled, stepped aside. There were two of them, one man, one woman. Both wearing the kind of plainclothes that marked them out as just another uniformed branch of the police. The man held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Sheridan. And this is Detective Constable Blake.’ He gestured to the hallway. ‘May we?’
Tom knew he had no choice. He stood aside.
He followed them into the living room. Sheridan was tall, brown haired, grey suited. Neat looking, like a daytime TV host. Every centimetre the modern, management-trained police officer. Blake was smaller, more lithe, with dark bobbed hair. Her features, while plain, were remarkable. She had the blankness of film stars, gave nothing away, allowed a viewer to superimpose their own opinions on what she was thinking, read what they wanted to see. Good trick for a copper.
‘Sit down,’ said Tom, pointing to the sofa.
They did as Tom turned the music off, sat back down in the armchair. Not wanting to speak first, knowing they were waiting for him to do so, that his question would be their way of gaining the upper hand. He had done it himself enough times.
Sheridan took a laptop out of his briefcase, opened it up. ‘I expect you’re wondering why we’re here, Mr Killgannon?’
‘The fishing? Very good this time of year.’
Sheridan gave a brief smile. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’ He found what he wanted on the laptop, gave his full attention to Tom. Blake was looking round the room, making silent judgements.
Tom waited. He hadn’t asked if they wanted tea. Neither had suggested it. This wasn’t a social call.
Sheridan shot a quick glance round the room. ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Not everyone gets this kind of opportunity.’
‘The price is commensurate with what I was earning previously. Those are the rules. And you should know what I was earning since I was one of you lot. Plus I’ve put a lot of work into it.’
‘Yeah, and it’s paid off. Very nice.’
Tom felt anger rising within him. ‘Did you just come here to compliment my decor or did you want something else? And how d’you know I’m here?’
‘Has your liaison officer talked to you, Mr Killgannon?’ Still saying his name but the tone changing, the pretence of the game slipping. Getting down to business.
‘I’m kind of between liaison officers at the moment. I’m sure you know what happened to the last one.’
Sheridan said nothing. He was well aware of the events of seven months ago.
‘You stuck your head above the parapet,’ said Sheridan. ‘Could have been nasty. Left your new identity in tatters. All that work for nothing.’
‘Well you’ve found your way here. My identity seems to be an open secret.’ His anger rose a notch.
‘You’ve been given a fair degree of leeway in the past. Had several blind eyes turned when perhaps they shouldn’t have.’ Something crept into Sheridan’s voice. Bitterness? Jealousy? Tom couldn’t make it out. ‘You must have been quite an asset back in the day.’
‘Can’t have been that good if you two have heard of me.’
‘We’ve been given your name by the department handling you.’ Sheridan gave a small laugh. ‘And you wouldn’t believe the hoops we’ve had to jump through, the forms we’ve had to sign, the briefings we’ve had so Tom Killgannon doesn’t get given a
way.’
‘So it should be. This is my life we’re talking about here.’
‘Oh, absolutely. But you’re still down as an active asset. As and when you’re needed. And you’re needed now, buddy.’
Outside the crows continued to caw. This was the call he had always expected. Always dreaded. ‘What’s the job?’
‘Noel Cunningham. Know the name?’
Tom frowned, thinking. ‘Rings a bell.’
‘Convicted child murderer,’ said Blake. ‘Known as The Choirboy Killer because he was a choirmaster. Local to the South West. Killed seven, but only five bodies have turned up. Won’t say where the other two are.’
‘Until now,’ continued Sheridan.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He’s been making noises that he’s ready to talk,’ said Blake. Her tone of voice gave as much away as her features. ‘Ready to give up the locations of his final two victims. We want someone there to help him along.’
‘Why would he do that? Presumably he’s never going to be let out so nothing he could say would make any difference.’
‘His mother’s got cancer. The terminal kind. He wants to visit her, be there when she goes, he says. It would be too politically sensitive to let him do that, especially for the amount of time he wants. So we’ve suggested a bargain. The two dead bodies for the right to be with his mother.’
Sheridan nodded. ‘We’ve tried getting people from our own team next to him undercover, but without success. They’re too well known. Put half of them that’s inside there.’
‘Inside being . . .’
‘Blackmoor,’ said Blake. ‘Prison. Cunningham’s a local boy. The bodies are buried somewhere on the moor. He requested a move to the prison. Said it would jog his memory. He’s been there a while now. And nothing’s changed.’
‘So we’re going to put someone on the inside,’ said Sheridan. ‘Cunningham’s not good with authority. Doesn’t want to just come out and say it. Plus he’s a tricky bastard. We thought it would be more likely for him to open up to one of his peers.’
Prison . . . Tom’s stomach lurched. He had previously worked undercover with criminals, in gangs . . . But not prison. He had drawn the line at that. Too confined, too easy for something to go wrong. To be found out. And if it did, he’d be stuck there. Or worse.
‘Presumably you’ve read my file, or been briefed on me.’
‘Yes,’ said Sheridan.
‘Then you’ll know I don’t do prison work. Never have.’
‘You’ve been given a lot of leeway in the past like DS Sheridan said,’ Blake’s voice hardened. ‘You’ve had it easy here. Been left alone when someone else wouldn’t have been. And that’s OK. Give and take, isn’t it? But you knew you’d have to pick up the tab one day.’
‘I don’t do prison.’
A ghost of a smile crossed Blake’s face. ‘You do now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sheridan said, trying to head off any further conflict, ‘we’ll move you in at night so as not to arouse suspicion among the staff and inmates. Ghosting, it’s called.’
‘Just a minute. The staff? They won’t know why I’m there? Who I am?’
‘The fewer people the better. Need to know only. I’ve read your file. That’s how you’ve always chosen to operate. One person in control on the outside, you left on your own. Said it got you the best results.’
Tom could say nothing. Sheridan had clearly read his file thoroughly.
‘We’d provide you with a cover story, a good one that you’ll be able to corroborate and stick to. We could even use this identity to give it a bit of extra reality. Then once you’re inside, get close to Cunningham. Once he talks, your job is done. Relay the information to me, we’ll get you out of there. Handshakes all round.’
Tom thought before answering. ‘So if I do this . . .’ ‘He looked at Sheridan. From the expression on his face, Tom didn’t think he had a choice. ‘The debt you mentioned.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I do this and I’m left alone? For good?’
Sheridan smiled, looked directly at him. ‘Obviously that decision isn’t mine to make, but honestly? I don’t see why not.’
Tom sighed. He knew what Sheridan’s words were worth. Had even been on the same training course that taught him how to lie to another person’s face without giving himself away. The room felt claustrophobic, suddenly. Like he was already jailed. ‘When do I start?’
Blake stood up. Sheridan followed. ‘No time like the present.’
And that was how Tom Killgannon ended up in HMP Blackmoor.
4
Five weeks before
It was late afternoon but the darkening sky made it more like night. The sea wind hit the cliff tops around St Petroc announcing the arrival of November. The St Petroc stone circle stood out against the flat horizon, dark grey on light. Lit only by the distant streetlights of the village, a sodium sunset on the horizon.
Two figures sat on a fallen stone, sharing a torch between them. The stone had been worn flat over the centuries. Local legend stated it was once used for sacrifices. During the madness seven months ago it almost had been. Now Tom and Pearl sat there, huddled close. For warmth only, they would have both said had they been asked.
Tom had something to tell her.
‘So why have we come up here, then?’ Pearl laughed. ‘Crap idea for a date.’
Tom didn’t know how to reply. He pretended he hadn’t heard her. Nominally she was his boss at the Sailmakers Arms, the pub he worked in. But over the months they had become more than employer and employee. What that was hadn’t been fully explored. They weren’t lovers but they were more than friends. There was a connection Tom had felt only rarely. Once that might have delighted him. Now the thought scared him.
‘Neutral ground,’ he said. ‘You know what the pub’s like for gossip.’
She nodded. Their relationship was often a subject for speculation.
‘So you’ve got something to tell me,’ she said. ‘That’s what you said in the text. What’s all this secretive stuff for?’
He sighed. Thought. Knew he had no option but to tell her straight. ‘I’ve got to go away for a bit.’
She just stared at him. ‘Got to?’
‘Got to.’
‘What d’you mean?’
He looked at the ground, checking for any remaining scorch marks in the grass from that night seven months ago. They were barely there. The seasons had covered them. He looked at her. She was very attractive, he thought. Slightly younger than him, dark hair kept quite short, intelligent eyes, a mouth ready to laugh. Trying not to let the recent past define her. She had become so important to his life. He didn’t dare believe she would be thinking the same.
‘I’ve got to go. You know my . . . background? How I ended up here?’
Pearl nodded. She was one of the two people he had told the truth to. The other being Lila.
‘Well, as part of my deal with them I have to be on call. When they need me.’
‘And they need you now.’ Disappointment in her voice.
He nodded. ‘They’ve got a job for me.’ He turned to face her. ‘And they want you to have a place in it too.’
‘Me?’
‘They’ve given me a cover story. I just need you to corroborate it for me. If anyone comes looking, you know.’
‘Might that happen?’
‘I doubt it. But don’t worry. I’ve been in touch with an old mate. He’s going to be around to keep an eye on things. Just in case someone comes around trying to poke holes in the story.’
Her eyes widened. She looked scared. ‘What the hell’s going on? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s just a precaution, that’s all. Standard procedure, the way I used to operate. I’m being doubly safe. It’s silly, really. But I have to tell you. Please say if you’d rather not be part of it and they can think of something else.’
‘What is it?’
He told her. Blackmoor Prison. Noel Cunningham. His plausible cover story and her part in it. And how he would get it done as quickly as possible.
‘I’ll be back by Christmas. Promise.’
‘You’d better,’ she said, grateful for something she could cling to, ‘or you’ll get the sack. Busiest time.’ She looked at the ground. Her voice became smaller. ‘I need you there.’ She tried to smile. It could have broken his heart. ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really. I just do what I’m supposed to, get out. Simple as that. It’ll be fine. Honestly.’
She stared at the ground. He was sure she wasn’t looking for scorch marks.
‘Never trust anyone who uses the word “honest”.’
‘Good advice,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘It’s just . . . it’s a lot to take in. It’s . . .’ Another shake. ‘I don’t know. It’s like normal life has stopped suddenly. And now there’s . . . this.’ She looked up at him, eyes direct, locking. ‘Do you really have to do it? Isn’t there anyone else?’
‘I don’t know. I seem to be the best qualified, according to them. It’s fine. The pub’ll keep going.’
‘It’s not the pub I’m worried about.’
A wave crashed against the cliff behind them. The sea wind intensified. She moved towards him. Tom stayed where he was. She took his hand in hers.
‘Tom . . .’
‘Why do we have to meet out here? Where it’s freezing? What’s wrong with the living room or the pub?’
They both turned, hands dropping. Lila stood behind them.
‘I asked Lila to join us,’ said Tom. ‘She needs to know as well. Both of you do.’
‘Need to know what?’ asked Lila. ‘What’s all this about?’
Tom noticed a slight buzz of anger on her words. Was that because she had had to walk all the way to the stone circle or because Pearl was here too? Or was it something else?
‘You two announcing your engagement or something? Should I buy a hat?’
Lila sat down on the stone. ‘Budge up, then. What’s happening?’
The Sinner Page 3