by Mark Ayre
“Just got it finished last weekend,” said Eddie. “Right under the wire, what with Jess due any day. Course, we still have to get rid of that, but we’ve not yet decided what to do with it.”
He was pointing at the sofa, which he had recently transformed into an unpleasant looking bed. The mattress which topped it looked far harder, far less comfortable than the mattress on the baby’s bed, though it had size on its side. The sheets were stiff from years spent unused in a cupboard somewhere. There was a single, limp pillow.
“Don’t yet know where to put it,” he said. “Third bedroom, such that it is, is far too small. Might have to get rid.”
Abbie nodded but wasn’t really listening. Head swimming, she felt as though she could fall any minute. The cries grew louder and louder, to the point where she began to wonder if maybe Jess had given birth downstairs while Eddie showed Abbie the spare room.
All of a sudden, she needed to be alone.
“Thank you,” she said, “for putting me up.”
“Thanks for helping with Danny.”
Again, Abbie nodded but didn’t speak. She wasn’t facing Eddie. Her eyes were fixed on the cot.
Eddie said goodnight and left her alone in the dim light of a bedside lamp. Abbie never slept well. She wasn’t sure she’d get even a minute with that cot in the corner and the pregnant Jess next door, shifting and turning.
And the baby. The one from her past. Wailing and wailing though, in real life, Abbie was sure she had never heard it cry.
It. Abbie hated saying it, but what was the gender? Boy, girl? She wished she knew. She wished she could pick one and stick with it, but how?
Because her legs were shaking rather than because sleep was near, Abbie fell on the bed. Across from her was the table on which sat the box of nappies and wipes. Beside it was another photo: the smiling couple, a few months back. Jess was just starting to show.
Rising, Abbie crossed the room intending to put the photo on its front. Before she knew what was happening, it was in her hands, and she was back on the bed, staring at the glass, and the people captured in the photo beneath.
Losing a baby had left Jess heartbroken. Now the perfect life was within her grasp.
How would she cope with a second loss?
Abbie rose and placed the frame on the table, not face down, but facing away. She fell into bed and put her hands over her eyes.
She saw Eddie’s face again, twisted, contorted in pain and fear.
Jess was preparing for her happy ever after.
The clock was ticking, Jess’ baby was due any day, and if Abbie didn’t do something, Jess would be raising her child alone.
It was 04.30 in the morning.
Less than 44 hours to go.
Six
A few hours later, Eddie cooked Abbie breakfast. By the time they left the house, it was nine am, and Eddie possibly had only 39 hours to live.
It was only ten minutes to the hotel. Having banked some trust and goodwill the previous night, mainly by getting the wife onside, Abbie should have used this time to wheedle information from Eddie on Francis and Danny's relationship, sure as she was that any danger Eddie faced likely came from this entanglement.
Still shaken following a night of nightmares which had ended only when she woke with a start and rushed across the room to destroy the cot, only stopping herself at the last second, Abbie could not find the strength to speak, and they arrived having said not a word to each other.
The hotel was a small independent that would likely be described as offering bags of charm. This was not an unfair assessment, even if it was a phrase that made Abbie want to puke.
They entered the lobby and passed the empty reception desk. Last night, Glenda had explained she worked sixteen-hour days and employed only one member of staff. It was impossible to operate the receptionist desk at all hours, so she gave her mobile number out freely and had installed a bell on the desk. Knowing where they were going, Abbie and Eddie head straight upstairs.
There were only five bedrooms in the hotel, one of which belonged to Glenda. Of the other four, Abbie's was the smallest and the one positioned furthest from the stairs on the first floor. Abbie knew this only because Eddie led the way. After checking in with Glenda and explaining that Danny would be using her room (a suspicious request that Glenda had accepted with a surprising amount of grace and lack of questions), Abbie had waited by the car for Eddie to return.
Eddie had also kept the key. Reaching the door, he paused once he had slid it into the lock.
"Maybe you should wait outside."
He didn't mean it. The nerves were evident on his face. He worried how his brother might act in the cold light of day. Afraid another fight might ensue.
Rather than responding, Abbie stepped back. Let him read into that what he would. After a spot of hesitation, Eddie nodded, turned the key in the lock, and pushed it open. As soon as he had stepped across the threshold, Abbie followed.
The door opened onto a short corridor created by the en-suite on the right and built-in wardrobe on the left. Beyond these, Abbie could see a desk on the left-hand wall upon which sat a telly. Presumably to hang his coat, Danny had pulled the desk chair a little way back from the desk. In the intervening hours, the jacket had fallen to the floor and now pooled in a bunch around the chair's back legs. The en-suite blocked all but the bottom end of the bed from sight. There was a window at the end of the room Abbie could see. The curtains were drawn.
The room was silent. Either Danny was immobile and didn't snore, or he had gone out. If he had left for the morning, he had done so without opening the curtains. Unsurprising. He had also gone without his jacket. More surprising, given the temperature outside.
Eddie had moved to the edge of the en-suite wall. Abbie stepped into the room, lowered her foot, then stopped and pulled it back. She looked at the mark on the carpet where she had almost placed her foot. Reaching out a hand, she grabbed Eddie's arm.
"Hang on a minute."
But he whipped his arm away ("I told you to wait outside") and stepped further into the room, passing the en-suite and turning to look upon the bed.
"He's not here," Eddie said. "He promised me. Shit."
Abbie passed the first mark and noticed another near the coat on the floor. A third and fourth by the far wall near the baseboard of the bed. There was also the hint of something poking out beyond the bed's end, on that far side.
"Eddie," Abbie said, her voice calm. "Maybe we should step outside a moment."
Ignoring her, Eddie continued into the room. Abbie passed the en-suite and looked at the bed. Still made. Though the duvet was a little ruffled on one side where someone had, at least briefly, lay down.
Eddie had reached the window. He threw open the curtains and turned to his right. He looked down into the small space between the exterior wall and the bed. As he did, Abbie went to the desk, grabbed Danny's jacket, and pulled out the desk chair.
Eddie made a small, strangled sound, and his legs buckled. Having pulled back the chair, Abbie was already moving. She slid an arm around Eddie's back, catching him before he fell.
"No," he whispered. "No. No. No."
"Come on. Sit down."
He said, "No," again, but put up zero fight as she nudged him back and forced him into the chair.
"Try to take deep breaths."
"No. No. No." All the blood seemed to have evacuated Eddie's head and hands. Maybe it had rushed to his feet.
Leaving Eddie briefly, Abbie stepped to the exterior wall and looked beside the bed. She had brought from the car her drawstring bag containing all her possessions. Shoving in her hand, she withdrew her phone, unlocked it. She'd only had it a couple of weeks. Would only have it a couple more. Luckily, it took no phone-specific knowledge to achieve her aims.
"I'd like to speak to the police."
While she spoke to the person at the other end of the line, revealing her location and telling them what had happened, she patted Danny's jacket wit
h a subtle hand. Not that Eddie was paying her any attention. Inside, she found Danny's wallet and keys. Nothing else. Once she'd hung up the phone, she threw the jacket on the bed.
Eddie was still mumbling. "No. No. No. Danny."
Danny lay on his back between the bed and the wall. The way he was sprawled, his arms and legs in awkward positions, you might have assumed he had collapsed beside rather than on his bed after a heavy night, and passed out drunk.
But drunks don't sleep with wide-open, terror-filled eyes. At least, not in Abbie's experience. Nor did their impending hangover lead to their chest, their trousers, and their face, as well as the carpet around them, becoming covered in blood.
The murder weapon was gone, but Abbie had no doubt Danny's killer had stabbed him repeatedly with some kind of blade.
Not a pleasant way to go.
Forcing herself away from the body, Abbie returned to the stunned Eddie. With little of value to say, she instead rolled out a cliche.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
Hadn't she said the same to Jess yesterday? Here was a man who had not so long ago lost his baby. Now his baby brother. Abbie wished she couldn't imagine his pain, but she was one of the few people who could say, I know how you must be feeling, and mean it.
Unlike with Jess, Abbie would not use her past to connect with Eddie.
Which left her with precious little idea what to say.
"The police are on their way," was what she went for. "Maybe we should get you downstairs. Get you a drink or something. I know this is hard—"
She touched his arm, and he jerked away. With his pale skin, wide eyes and the trembling finger he raised to point at her, it was as though he'd seen his brother's ghost rather than the living Abbie.
Before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say. Planning to head him off, she spoke his name, but he cut her up.
"You did this," he said. "You killed my brother."
She spoke his name again. Before she could say another word, Eddie released the most awful, guttural cry of pain and fury.
And attacked.
Seven
Eddie’s attack was blind, wild. It took no effort for Abbie to step aside, grab his arm, and use his momentum to discard him.
Had he been an enemy, or merely someone who had pissed her off, as had Danny the previous evening, she would have spun him into the desk. Possibly smashing his face into the solid wood for good measure.
As he was a grieving brother and kind man, Abbie didn’t want to hurt Eddie. Instead of the desk, she swung him towards the bed, allowing him to land on his back and bounce. No pain. For either of them.
Of course, this method did nothing to prevent Eddie coming again. Immediately, he started to rise. Because he was lying and she standing above him, it was easy for Abbie to position herself in such a way that, whenever he tried to rise, she could plant a palm in the centre of his chest and return him to the bed.
Like a rabid animal, he snapped and snarled every time she pushed him down. Unlike an animal, his eyes were wet from tears.
“Stop this,” she said, after his third attempt to rise. “You’ll do nothing but wear yourself out.”
“You killed him. I trusted you. I can’t believe I trusted you.”
“You want someone to blame. I get that. You know this wasn’t me. I was next door to you, and that spare bed of yours creaks something awful. Wasn’t too comfortable either, though I didn’t mention it. Didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”
His eyes burned with rage and grief. Abbie closed hers a moment, then sighed.
“This wasn’t me.”
“You called someone,” he said. “You did this.”
She shook her head. But what was the point? He would never believe her. All the progress she had made yesterday with Jess, gone in a second.
“I’m sorry about Danny,” she said. “I will find out who did this.”
This was indeed her intention. Not because she felt a strong need to avenge Danny but because she felt finding his killer would enable her to save Eddie’s life. And wasn’t that her primary goal? No. Her only goal.
Eddie didn’t want to hear it. Promising to find Danny’s killer was pointless when Eddie already believed he was looking at her. He made as though he was trying to rise then rolled, tumbling off the bed on the opposite side to where Danny lay. As Abbie turned, he rose and stumbled back.
“Please don’t attack me,” said Abbie. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
But grief and rage are the enemies of reason. Had Abbie possessed both gun and sword, Eddie still would have attacked if given the time. Before he got the chance, a frightened Glenda appeared in the doorway.
“The police,” she said, sounding lost. “The police are outside.”
A bland room, lacking both colour and warmth. Featuring nothing other than a solid table and four chairs, two tubes of light fixed into the ceiling, and a sturdy door. There were no windows nor a mirror. Neither the fake kind, that allowed police officers to observe interviews from an adjacent room, nor the honest sort, within which Abbie might have checked the state of the bags under her eyes. Perhaps that she couldn't was for the best.
Abbie was not under arrest. She was, in police phraseology, A Person of Interest. There was no real reason to believe she had been involved in Danny's murder, other than that he had been killed in a room for which she was paying. Her case had not been helped by Eddie. Following Glenda's declaration, he had stormed outside. Abbie had followed, and when she appeared from the hotel, she'd heard Eddie gibbering about how Abbie had murdered his brother. Calm, collected, Abbie had presented herself to the police, explained that she had arrived with Eddie to find Danny dead, and offered to come to the station to answer any questions.
In separate cars, Abbie and Eddie had been driven to the local police station. There was no reason to believe Abbie had been involved in Danny's murder, yet she had been waiting to be questioned in this pokey room, alone, for over an hour. Frustrating, but expected. The police would be talking to Eddie, extracting from him every piece of information they could. Leaving Abbie was a precaution. If she was guilty, they hoped to give her time to become worked up and agitated. When they arrived and told her they had spoken to Eddie, they would leave a pause, hoping she would break down and confess to murder. If she was guilty. And they hoped she was. Because she was already in their custody, and didn't that make their job all the easier?
Unfortunately for the cops, Abbie'd had numerous run-ins with the police. Had been grilled about multiple killings on multiple occasions. She had never been arrested, which was ideal because she had committed none of the murders about which she had been questioned.
This prior experience meant Abbie used her time alone to consider what might have happened to Danny rather than fret about what Eddie might be saying or what the police might be thinking. She wasn't worried about whether they might arrest her. She thought only of her hotel room and of the dead body. Of what might have happened. She had her ideas, and she analysed them in the silence of the interview room.
The only other issue that concerned her was the clock. There wasn't one in here, but she could none the less hear the ticking.
It was 10.14. Almost a quarter of Abbie's time had passed.
When the police finally let her go, how long would remain before Eddie ended up like his brother?
10.36.
That was when the door opened and a tall man in a pressed suit entered. With him, he carried a closed file and a tiny silver recorder. Both he placed on the table before sitting opposite Abbie. After clearing his throat and somehow failing to offer Abbie a drink, he started the tape and went through the preliminaries. Time, date, etc. He said his name (DI Sanderson) and asked Abbie to identify herself.
"Abagail King."
"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. We've been speaking with Mr Edward Dean, who I believe you know."
And here was the pause. Sanderson adjusted the file
on the table and cleared his throat again. He leaned back and loosened his tie, just a touch. It would have offered no added comfort. It was all for show.
Abbie allowed the charade and silence to drag a little while. Waited until she was sure he was only a couple of seconds from resuming the conversation. Then leaned forward.
"I'm sorry."
Sanderson was in his fifties with greying hair and the kind of lines that came not only from age but from working too hard for too long. Abbie was sure he was a professional. Regardless, police work was taxing and too often thankless. At her apology, Sanderson sensed a quick win and, though his mouth remained a straight line, he could not keep the excited glimmer from his eyes.
"What would you have to be sorry for?"
"The underfunding of the police force," Abbie said. Her frown suggesting she was surprised he had to ask. Wasn't this obvious? "It's a crime—no pun intended—how successive governments have strangled the money you have available to do your jobs. I mean, the fact you don't have the budget to hire another detective, to enable you to interview both Eddie and myself at the same time. Tragic. Something must be done."
Sanderson's mouth remained a straight line. If he had similar control over the rest of his face, he might have kept the streak of anger from his eyes and brow.
"Are you going to make this difficult?" he asked, with some restraint.
"No."
She meant this. Despite the hours she had spent in crummy cookie-cutter interview rooms over the last few years, Abbie had great respect for the police and the tough job they did. Making fun of Sanderson was a calculated move designed not to piss off or humiliate him but to make evident that his usual tricks would not work on her. In the past, she had found this led to a more straightforward, open conversation.
That was assuming Sanderson was reasonable. Professional. If he wasn't, he might frame or even attack her. Those were concerns to be handled as and when they presented themselves.
