Mr Orr spat on the floor at their feet, a gobbet of blood and saliva that turned Gareth’s stomach.
‘I took them to the shop.’ Although his voice shook, he looked Doran in the eye, contemptuous and angry. ‘They’re in the vault.’
Doran hit him again. ‘Wrong answer,’ he said. ‘Your vault is on a time lock. It won’t allow you access till eight-thirty tomorrow morning. So. Where — are the stones?’
Doran asked that question again and again. Each repetition was followed by a blow with his gloved fist to the old man’s face. The third blow broke the old man’s finely chiselled nose.
The crunch of cartilage and the grunt of pain from the old jeweller were too much for Gareth. He felt like a dreamer who had woken from a nightmare to discover a massacre taking place in his home. He turned to flee, but Doran caught him and spun him around, pushing him down. He fell on his knees in front of Mr Orr and stayed there.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Just tell him. For God’s sake, just fucking tell him!’
The old man sobbed and shook his head. He heard Mrs Orr begin keening somewhere upstairs, then a slap, followed by silence.
The defence would point to the bloody handprint on Gareth’s jacket as evidence that he had not been alone in the Orr’s house that night. But the jury was not convinced. They held Gareth responsible for what happened next.
Doran asked again, ‘Where are the stones?’ And again. And again. And again. Each refusal to answer was punished by another blow to Mr Orr’s face, until the old man couldn’t have answered if he tried, because the blood filled his mouth, and the bruising was so severe he could not have formed the words. Gareth closed his eyes against the horror of it and covered his ears against the sound of fists on bloody flesh, but also against the awful coldness of that single, cold, repeated question.
He felt a sudden burst of pain in his leg. Doran had kicked him. He opened his eyes and brought his hands away from his ears.
‘Get the wife,’ Doran said.
Gareth looked into Doran’s face and saw . . . nothing. He had thought that the face of evil would be furious, rabid, gleeful in its destructive rage. But looking into Doran’s face he saw a total absence of feeling that chilled him more than rage or even insanity could.
They brought the old woman downstairs. She was in her nightdress and she looked tiny and incredibly frail. Gareth saw the folds of her gown tremble and he looked away, shamed by what he had witnessed, that he had come to this.
Doran stood in front of her husband, blocking her view until the last moment, then he stepped away. She groaned, sagging at the knees, then struggled to free herself from Warrender’s grip. Gareth knew she wasn’t trying to get away, only to reach her husband and help him.
Doran told Gareth to fetch another chair and they made her sit. Warrender stood behind her, his big hands on her narrow shoulders, and she fixed her eyes on her husband’s face, her lips trembling, but a look of such determination on her face that Gareth was afraid for her.
Doran stood in front of her, his hands at his sides, and Gareth saw a drop of Mr Orr’s blood fall from the tip of Doran’s finger and splash onto the floor.
‘Where . . .’ he repeated for the last time, ‘are the stones?’
Gareth heard Mr Orr groan — or it might have been Gareth himself.
The old woman braced herself and Gareth looked at her, tears streaming down his face. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘He’s . . . he’ll . . .’ He was afraid even to say it, now. He knew that Doran would kill them both, and he knew that it was his fault.
Her eyes turned briefly from her husband to Gareth and he saw fear for herself and pity for him.
Her cheekbone cracked under Doran’s fist and her head snapped back. She slumped and Gareth covered his face, again, sobbing.
There was a silence, then Doran said softly, ‘Fuck.’
Gareth felt himself being hauled to his feet. ‘Shut up,’ Doran said. His voice was devoid of all emotion.
Gareth wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and did as he was told.
‘Neck’s broken,’ Warrender said, trying to sound dispassionate, but Gareth saw that he was shaken.
A look passed between Doran and Warrender and it seemed they had come to an agreement. Doran dipped into his pocket and brought something out. At first, incongruously, Gareth thought it was a comb. Then he heard a click and a switchblade flicked out.
‘You first,’ Doran said, handing the knife to Gareth.
He stared at it in the palm of his hand: a bone-handled knife, antique, probably. It seemed sinister, monstrous. He stared at it and wondered how many lives it had taken. ‘N-no,’ he stuttered, offering it back to Doran. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘I’m not giving it to you, moron,’ Doran said, with the same cold emptiness. He glanced at the old man. Mr Orr’s breathing was harsh, stentorian. ‘You’ll be doing him a favour,’ he said.
Gareth’s eyes widened. ‘No,’ he said again. He wanted to say, This isn’t me — this isn’t who I am.
‘You said my fucking name, you little prick,’ Doran said. ‘This is your fault. You’re in this as much as we are.’
Gareth shook his head. No. They could not make him do this. It didn’t cross his mind to use the knife to protect himself, or the old man. He offered it again to Doran, and when he refused, Gareth placed the knife on the ground. Doran glanced at Warrender.
Gareth fell, lights flashing behind his eyes, his ears ringing. Warrender had punched him in the side of the head. Gareth curled into the foetal position, waiting for the kicking to start.
‘Open your eyes,’ Doran said.
He curled tighter.
‘Open your eyes, you pathetic little shit.’
Doran was holding a gun. He pointed it at Gareth’s face.
‘Now — pick up the knife.’
It was a couple of feet away from him, the bone handle gleaming dully in the warm light of the hallway. He licked his lips. Please, God, I don’t want to die. He told himself he would be a better man — make up for all the bad things he had done, if only they let him live. He didn’t know how this would be achieved. Didn’t really know what he meant by it. He couldn’t think past the barrel of the gun in Doran’s hand. But he knew, for the first time since he had been released from prison, that he wanted to live.
‘I cut him,’ Gareth told her all those years after the terrible events of that night. ‘I cut Mr Orr. I told myself that Doran made me. I told myself I had no choice — that Doran was going to kill him anyway.’
‘“Do it”, Doran said, and I thought, Okay, I’ll do it. See what I can do. Come near me, I’ll do it to you, as well. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I had the old man’s blood on my clothes, in my hair — it was dripping off me, but I couldn’t stop.’
‘He held a gun on you,’ Megan said. ‘You were out of your mind with fear.’
‘God, I wish I could say that,’ he said. ‘I wish it was true. I wish I had been out of my mind, so I didn’t have to remember what I did — didn’t have to accept responsibility for what I did. But I knew what I was doing. I knew it was wrong. Those two years in the Youth Offenders’ Institute tore something out of me. I don’t know if I believe in the soul, but something human in me was gone, and I couldn’t get it back.’
‘Gareth . . .’ she said, trying to understand. But he didn’t want that — didn’t feel he deserved it.
‘You know what terrified me? You know what made me give myself up to the police?’
‘Guilt?’ she said, and he had to look away; her trust was too painful to see.
‘Out of guilt, yes, but also because of the rage I felt. When I cut that old man, I got back at everyone who ever hurt me. I got back at Dad, for not being there. At the system, for putting me away. At the lads who tormented and bullied me in that hell-hole. At the screws who let them, at Mum for being so damn helpless . . .’ He hardened his voice so it wouldn’t break. ‘At you, for needing me.’
He saw the sho
ck on her face and knew how much he had hurt her, but she had to know who he really was. ‘The rage didn’t stop after I killed that man,’ he said. ‘It burned inside me, turning everything to ash. I didn’t know what to do. And I was afraid of what I might do.’
Chapter Forty
Rickman had waved Tanya and the boys off at six a.m. Tanya wanted to avoid the worst of the traffic on the M6 south. She had decided to visit her parents in Cornwall.
Fergus offered his hand. ‘Bye, Unc,’ he said, avoiding Rickman’s eye. He had been badly frightened by Simon’s outburst, and even now, Rickman sensed he was apprehensive.
Rickman dipped inside his jacket pocket. He had been dressed and ready for work for the past half hour. He handed Fergus one of his police business cards. ‘In case you need me,’ he said.
Fergus stared at the Merseyside Police Authority crest, then looked up into his uncle’s face.
‘That’s the number for the Bat Cave,’ Rickman said, pointing to his mobile number.
Fergus smiled.
‘It’s always switched on.’
‘Batman — always on the job,’ the boy said, still smiling, running his finger over the embossed logo.
‘So, whenever — okay?’
Fergus nodded, pocketing the card.
Tanya closed the tailgate of their hired SUV as Fergus climbed into the front passenger seat. ‘We’ll call in before we leave the country,’ she promised.
Rickman nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things this end.’
Tanya slipped into his arms and he felt the contact like an electric shock. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
* * *
He checked all the doors and windows before leaving; the house felt empty, too full of echoes. She had promised to come back. This time. But how many times could he expect them to return? Simon had no use for them and seeing him was damaging for Jeff junior and Fergus. He was fearful that next time, or the time after that, they would not return, and the prospect of losing them so soon after they had come into his life terrified him.
He’d put out word that he wanted everyone in for the morning briefing, and the Incident Room was packed end-to-end by eight-fifteen. The mood was very different from the day before: there was a buzz of excitement, and the fatigue that had infected the team the previous day was banished by energetic speculation and gossip. It seemed clear there must be new evidence. Tunstall was taking bets on a body having turned up.
‘If there’s a body, we’d have heard about it by now,’ Reid said.
‘It’s got to be a body,’ Tunstall insisted. ‘Why else would Tony Mayle be here?’
‘I dunno.’ Reid shoved a stack of untidy paperwork to one side and staked his pitch on a desk near the back of the room. ‘His lot’ve been looking at Megan’s computer, haven’t they?’
Tunstall grunted, unconvinced. ‘He doesn’t do house calls ’less it’s for a body — and an interesting one at that.’
Foster passed him on the way to the tea table. ‘Nice one, mate,’ he said. ‘If you wait about thirty seconds you could say that to Rickman’s face.’
Tunstall flushed. ‘Oh, hell, I didn’t mean—’
Foster moved on and Tunstall blundered off to find a quiet corner to sulk.
Naomi Hart was already brewing up, squeezing out a tea-bag before dropping it into the metal bin tucked away under the table. She looked rested and fit, her creamy skin suffused with healthy colour, her blonde hair twisted into an artfully careless knot. It shone lemon-gold in a narrow band of pale spring sunshine that sliced through one of the high windows.
‘All right?’ Foster said, by way of a friendly greeting.
‘Pretty good,’ Hart said. ‘I had a very . . . entertaining evening.’
Foster eyed her. ‘I grow on people.’
‘So does athlete’s foot.’ A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. ‘And anyway, Megan provided most of the entertainment.’
Rickman called the briefing to order before Foster had the chance to reply.
‘Let’s get started.’ Rickman’s voice carried clear and strong over the general chatter. ‘We’ve a lot to get through.’ Within seconds an expectant hush fell.
‘Megan’s real name is Ceri Owen. She has — or had — a brother, Gareth.’ There was a stirring of recognition from some of the older members of the team, and the name Gareth Owen became a murmured echo around the room. ‘She claims he’s dead, but the night team has instigated a search: if he is dead, he almost certainly died in prison. We should have confirmation one way or the other before the end of this briefing.’
‘Where is Megan — um — Ceri?’ Garvey corrected himself. ‘Did you locate her?’
‘She located me,’ Foster said dryly. ‘Where she is now is anyone’s guess. But she did give me her mobile number.’
‘Good of her,’ Garvey said.
‘You have to remember, she’s not under arrest,’ Rickman said. ‘We can’t detain her if she refuses protection, and we can’t compel her to tell us where she’s living. Lee—’ He stood aside and Foster stepped up, coffee mug still in hand.
‘First off,’ he said, ‘I vote we carry on calling her Megan — I can’t get my head round this new name.’ There were nods of approval, and Rickman agreed it would be simpler to stick with the name they knew.
Foster outlined the basic facts of his interview with Megan.
‘She just showed up at your place?’ Garvey sounded almost envious.
‘It’s my animal charm, Garve,’ Foster said. This caused a ripple of laughter.
‘Whatever her reasons for approaching Foster,’ Rickman said, picking up the thread before people started to stray off-topic. ‘We’ve got a lot more background than we had twelve hours ago. We need to make the most of it.’
Voce, gaunt and serious as always, asked, ‘Does that mean I’m off the oil rig enquiries, Boss?’
‘Consider the rigs decommissioned for now.’
Voce gave a wan smile.
‘We need to concentrate on checking out Megan’s story,’ Rickman went on. ‘If there is any evidence against Doran — we need to find it.’ Gareth Owen had done time, while Doran had prospered, and Rickman believed in natural justice.
‘Why didn’t the jewellers just tell Doran where the diamonds were?’ Reid asked. He looked brighter this morning, Rickman noted: apparently Voce wasn’t the only one cheered by the news that the rigs had been reassigned to low priority. ‘They must have been insured,’ Reid went on, ‘Why risk their lives?’
‘They’d given the diamonds to their son for safe-keeping,’ Rickman said. ‘He lived about half a mile away in Caldy. The Orrs were afraid that Doran would go after their son.
‘He went straight to the shop, as arranged, the next day. When his parents didn’t show up, he went to investigate. He found the bodies — their own son — he walked in on a scene that must have looked like a bad day at an abattoir. Mr Orr had been stabbed and slashed twenty times peri- and post-mortem. His wife was stabbed five times, post-mortem.’
There was a silence as the team absorbed this information.
‘The court record shows that Gareth Owen claimed to have left the house empty-handed. But valuables and a small amount of cash from the safe were never found. Now, we have to bear in mind that all this is hearsay — and from an unreliable source, at that — but if Megan is telling the truth, the missing items could give us a way to prove Doran’s involvement.’
Foster held up a set of prints. ‘I’ve got photos and sketches of the stolen jewellery and a gold watch. I’ll pin them on the board after.’
‘Why didn’t Gareth just tell the police about Doran’s involvement?’ Reid asked.
‘Megan says he did,’ Foster said. ‘But Doran and Warrender had airtight alibis. They said it was a grudge accusation from an embittered and frustrated kid. Both testified against him. Made it look like they had been investigating him within the firm. They had records of money going
missing, break-ins at property protected by their security systems — they even used his hacking activities against him — kid didn’t stand a chance.’
‘They got away with murder.’ Rickman looked at Reid, seated on one of the tables at the end of the room. He was still young enough to be shocked by the failures of the system.
‘Warrender was rapped on the knuckles for moonlighting — he took early retirement just after the trial,’ Rickman said. ‘Doran was exonerated.’
‘There must’ve been blood everywhere,’ Garvey said. ‘How come forensics didn’t find anything on them?’
‘Mr Orr’s blood was found on Gareth’s clothing and under his fingernails — the DNA evidence was conclusive,’ Rickman said. ‘There was no physical evidence to link Doran and Warrender to the murders. But Gareth waited until the next day to turn himself in, which would have given Doran and Warrender plenty of time to clean up.’ He found Tony Mayle in the throng.
‘Tony—’ Mayle looked over at Rickman, waiting calmly for the DCI’s question. ‘Could there be trace evidence present that wouldn’t have shown up in the eighties?’
Mayle thought about it for a moment. ‘There’s a possibility of transfer of skin cells from Doran’s knuckles to Mr Orr.’
‘Nah,’ Foster shook his head. ‘They were all wearing gloves.’
‘So how did Gareth get blood under his fingernails?’ somebody asked.
Rickman looked to Mayle for an explanation.
‘Trying to wash it off, most likely,’ Mayle said. ‘The natural response to so much blood is to strip off what you can and try to wash off the rest.’
A spark of excitement in the crime scene coordinator’s eyes made Rickman say, ‘What?’
‘Doran tied up Mr Orr?’ Mayle asked.
Foster nodded.
‘What did he use?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘Rope or tape?’ Mayle demanded with uncharacteristic urgency.
‘Dunno, mate . . .’ Foster glanced at Hart and she shrugged. ‘You’d have to check with the evidence store.’
‘Tape can be difficult to manage wearing gloves,’ Mayle explained. ‘So, they take their gloves off — leaving a nice crop of epithelials on the tacky side. If Doran did that—’
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 28
