Claypath considered this for a long moment, and the ghost of a sad smile played on his lips. “What it is, hmm?”
“Pardon?”
Then Claypath did smile a joyless smile. “What it is to find someone who understands.” Claypath leaned in close and whispered, “You know, sometimes when some idiot comes up to me and says sorry, I just want to wring their bloody necks, choke them until I feel the life ebbing from them, just so they can feel what I feel.” He considered what he said and leaned back again. His smile was genuine this time. He turned and beckoned to Robin to follow him. “You can see Matthew McConnell on two conditions—the first being that there will be guards directly outside the door. This boy is dangerous, and he is manipulative. There will also be guards watching the room on the closed-circuit cameras. Anything happens, you must alert the guards. I cannot stress that enough.” He led Robin to the waiting area, and a guard appeared from down a long and comparatively dark corridor as if on cue. “Stanton.”
The guard jumped slightly and looked at Claypath. “Sir.”
“This is Mr. Robin Ferringham. He has come to see Matthew McConnell.”
If there was any surprise at that, Stanton hid it perfectly. “Yes, sir.” He turned to Robin. “Will you come with me, please?”
Robin went to follow Stanton. And then turned back. “Wait. You said there were two conditions.”
“Yes,” Claypath said. “The second is you must come to the vigil being held at Marsden Church on Tuesday night. You can see firsthand the sorrow that Matthew McConnell has caused. And then—” Claypath’s face changed, like a cloud had come over him, his eyes sparking with a vindictive fire “—you can tell me exactly why you’re here.”
Robin quickly nodded and wilted under the man’s gaze.
Roger Claypath was good cop until he was bad cop.
And now Robin was on his agenda.
Chapter Twelve
The guard named Stanton led Robin through limitless corridors that all looked alike. He couldn’t help feel it was to keep him off balance. Finally Stanton stopped in front of a large window that looked into a dark room with only a table and two skeletal chairs either side of it.
Stanton frisked him again and, seemingly satisfied, let him into the room via a heavy steel door. Stanton told him to sit, so he did, while the guard disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room.
Robin looked around—no other windows, no connection with the outside world—and placed his notebook and pen on the table. He’d had to leave his backpack back with the officers in the lobby—even though there was nothing else in it. He looked at his watch. And tried to remember whether Stanton had locked the door behind him. Was he stuck in here?
Seconds piled up into minutes and Robin watched as the big hand on his watch whipped around from half past to the hour. The room was so silent he tried to strain his hearing to listen beyond it. But he couldn’t.
Eventually, the door swung open and Stanton pushed a small figure—dressed in a gray T-shirt and trousers, his hands cuffed in front of him—into the room. Stanton almost threw the young man down into the chair opposite Robin.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” Stanton said.
Robin nodded, as Stanton took one more look at the scene, assessing it and deeming it adequate, before he disappeared through the door.
Robin turned back to the young man in the chair. He looked different to how he appeared in the photographs—smaller, somehow even less realistic. His hair was tousled and he seemed generally dirty—his face slightly smudgy. He also looked a lot thinner.
His eyes, framed by lack of sleep, found their way up to Robin, with almost no drive, no motivation. “You’re really him?” he said.
“Hello, Matthew,” Robin said.
Chapter Thirteen
“I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” Robin said, before Matthew could say anything else. “I’m intrigued. I’m intrigued by the Standedge Incident. I’m intrigued by what happened. And I’m intrigued by you. But I don’t want you to think that I won’t drop this and go back to London if I find out that you are lying about Sam.”
“I’m not lying,” Matthew said defensively, although still in his small voice.
“How do you know her?” Robin pressed.
“I don’t.”
“Then why did she call you?”
“I don’t know. It was a random call. I thought it was someone taking the piss. I thought she was drunk.”
“How’d she get your number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was she calling from?”
“It was an unknown number.”
“And she said something about trusting me?”
“In a roundabout way. She wasn’t making much sense.”
“What did she say?”
“She said your name. She said you were the greatest man she’d ever known. And that you were someone to rely on. She said if you asked for help, Robin Ferringham would help,” Matthew said plainly. He stated it so unenthusiastically it was hard to not see it as fact.
Robin’s tone softened, although not consciously. “I don’t understand why she would call you and not me.”
Matthew sniffed. “Neither do I.”
“And she didn’t mention anything else?”
Matthew faltered. “No.”
Robin didn’t believe him. No one would. “You’re lying. What else did she say?”
“She muttered some incoherent stuff about...a black hound...and a horse’s head.”
“What?”
“I didn’t understand it. That’s where I got the idea she was drunk or on drugs or something. It didn’t make any sense. Who would understand that?”
A black hound. And a horse’s head. He definitely didn’t understand it. “When was this?”
Matthew brought up both his cuffed hands to wipe his nose. “It was the middle of the night. Like 3:00 a.m.”
Robin interrupted. His patience was thin. “I mean when? What year? What month?”
Matthew’s breath hitched, creating something between a sigh and a yelp. “I don’t... It was October. Nearly Halloween. Not last year. And it was before the others went to university. But I didn’t tell them about it. Because they’d gone quiet. And then I just forgot it. So...it must have been...20...yes, 2015.”
Robin stopped. His signing pen dropped out of his hand and clattered onto the table. His vision became hazy. His mouth quivered as he formed the next sentence. “Are you sure?”
Matthew regarded him as though he were a time bomb. “Are you okay?”
“Are you sure?” he said through clenched teeth.
“I...I think...” Matthew searched his memory. “Yes. Yes. I’m sure.”
Robin sniffed, blinked away his tears. “I think you were the last person to speak to Sam before she disappeared.”
Chapter Fourteen
Robin retrieved his pen. His voice was steady again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
And Matthew was defensive again. As though they had settled back into their roles and found comfort in them. “I didn’t know she was missing. I didn’t know until you told me. I just thought she was some drunk.”
“She wasn’t a drunk. She was my wife.”
“I didn’t ask her to call me,” Matthew said.
Robin slammed his fist down on the metal desk. He knew Matthew was right. But he still couldn’t bring himself to think that he wasn’t the one she’d called. There had to be a reason. “And that is all? That’s it?”
Matthew’s expression seemed to hold nothing but sorrow and understanding. “Yes.”
But Robin felt like walking out, leaving, not giving this man a moment more of his time. “You’re lying. There’s more.”
Robin couldn’t place the look on Matthew’s face until he heard his voi
ce. “I am lying.” It was disgust. He was disgusted. With himself. “I can’t tell you everything. And I’m sorry about that. But I need you to help me.”
So there it was. The incentive. The one bargaining chip Matthew held.
“You’ll tell me now.”
“I can’t do that. I need to know you’ll help me.”
“I will help you if you tell me.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, as tears rolled down his face. He seemed to be thinking, his face screwing up into a concentrated frown. “But I have to get out of here. I didn’t do it, Mr. Ferringham. I loved them. I could never do it. If you at least try to help, even if it doesn’t work, I’ll tell you everything else I know. I promise. I trust you—I’m asking you to please trust me.”
“It’s hard to trust someone who’s been arrested for the murder of five people.”
Matthew shook with tears. “I know.”
Robin stopped as Matthew composed himself. He wanted to believe the young man. He seemed genuine—he seemed in pain at the loss of his friends. But what if it was all an act? What if the real person he was mourning was the innocent Matthew that died in the tunnel?
It was hard for Robin to think with this mess of humanity in front of him, but he had to remember that currently the evidence pointed toward Matthew as the killer.
And yet even then he might be a killer withholding information about Sam.
He had to know what Matthew knew. Maybe it was something that could help him find her, find out what happened three years ago. “I need you to give me your word. Right now. I help you. You tell me everything.”
“I promise,” Matthew said. “Really. Honestly. I promise.”
Robin looked at him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll help you.”
Matthew looked at him through his tears and Robin saw hope dawn on his face. “Thank you.”
Robin smiled slightly, but he could only think of what Matthew was withholding from him. Robin wanted to help Matthew, was as intrigued by the Standedge Incident as anyone could be, but the driving force was Sam. It always was.
And if Sam sent Matthew to his doorstep, then who was he to turn him away?
Robin picked up his pen and opened his notebook. “I know a little. But I guess we should start with what happened on the 26th of June this year.”
Matthew sniffed away the tears, wiped his face with his cuffed hands. “Okay, yeah. Of course.”
“I know you worked for the Trust so could go through the tunnel unsupervised. But where did the boat come from?”
Matthew straightened somewhat. He cleared his throat. “It belonged to Edmund’s uncle. It was moored down the canal a ways. I was so excited I went a few hours early, just to get it ready for the guys, like do all my preliminary checks and stuff. When I was finished, I just waited for the rest of them on the boat. There was a TV, so I switched it on and ended up watching some daytime rubbish. That talk-show thing that used to have that famous guy Sheppard on, but they replaced him after... What’s it called?
“Something like Resident...”
Chapter Fifteen
June 26, 2018
11:00 a.m.
“...Detective. I’m Thomas Mane and Nothing Gets Past Me! Let’s start the show.” Matt smiled. What a load of rubbish.
Everything seemed in order. The engine seemed fine, and the small living quarters were as quaint and inviting as any boat he’d been on before. Matt loved narrow boats, would like to buy one someday. But they were expensive. And although he had the money from his parents’ estate, he couldn’t help but feel there were more pressing things a twenty-one-year-old should spend his money on.
He sat down at the dining table and watched as the presenter ushered on his first act—a couple fighting about some affair or whatever. He yawned—hadn’t been able to sleep the night before for excitement. He rested his head on the table, and before he knew it, he was asleep.
“Matt.”
Matt’s eyes snapped open. He was no longer alone. But he didn’t jump.
Pru and Robert were sitting on the bed. Pru was reaching over and prodding him. “Matt, hey. You’re not drunk, are you?”
“Can you get done for drink driving if you’re driving a canal boat?” Robert mused to no one in particular. “I mean, you’re not gonna get pulled over.”
“Ever the thinker,” Edmund said. Matt looked around and saw that Edmund was in the kitchen area, unpacking two plastic bags of cans and putting them in the fridge. Edmund put a can in front of Matt.
“He is right,” Matt said, smiling. “I am driving.”
Edmund laughed. “One’ll be fine, surely. You’re going to have to be a little tipsy, at least, to cope with us lot.”
Matt took the can, shrugged and popped it open.
“Attaboy.”
Matt just stared at Edmund and then Pru and then Robert silently. Finally they noticed. “What?” they seemed to all say in unison.
“You’re just...” Matt seemed to struggle for the words and settled on, “You’re just all here.”
They all laughed, the booming sound seeming to echo throughout the cabin. It sounded good.
“Of course,” Robert said. “It’s June 26. Where else would we be?”
Matt looked around at them—it seemed so right. “I haven’t seen you all since Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Edmund said, “sorry about that.”
“We’ll...” Pru trailed off, and very quickly looked from him to Edmund and back. “We’ll make it up to you.”
Matt didn’t know what to say, was processing the look, when he decided to change the subject. “Where’s Tim and Rachel?”
“They’ve just gone to get our final passenger,” Pru said, nicking Matt’s can and opening it herself. “We thought our final voyage should have a special guest.”
“Who?” Matt said.
“Well, DCI Claypath, of course,” Edmund said. “He particularly wants to try the weed I brought from uni.”
Pru threw a pillow at Edmund. “Don’t listen to him.”
Matt was just about to ask who, then? when there was a loud barking coming from outside the boat. Two dogs were making a play for loudest and most unruly and the barks segued into growls. Muffled voices started growing louder—two people arguing.
Everyone got up and filed out of the cabin in turn to see what all the fuss was about. Matt emerged to see Tim, carrying two crates of beer, arguing with a middle-aged woman. Rachel was trying to keep two dogs apart—one familiar, and dwarfed by the other, less familiar.
The dogs were dancing around each other in a circle. Amy, the Bedlington, wasn’t letting the hulk of a black Newfoundland out of her sight. “Amy,” Rachel was snapping, “Amygdala, down!” Rachel had named the dog herself, when she had got interested in psychology. Amygdala—the part of the brain that processed emotion, fear.
Amy didn’t have a lead, had never needed one as long as Matt had known her. She loved all other dogs, although clearly not now. The Newfoundland snarled and lunged at Amy. Amy jumped out of the way and continued to circle.
“This dog should have a lead, little terror.” The woman was lecturing Tim, but Tim was having none of it.
“How about your dog should have a lead? It’s practically a horse,” Tim shouted. “Or maybe a donkey.”
Matt, Pru, Edmund and Robert just stared at the entire scene, not entirely knowing what they had just walked into. None of the participants seemed to notice their audience.
“Your dog is terrorizing mine.”
“Your dog could eat mine three times over. Which looks like its primary strategy.”
“Rodney doesn’t like Bedlingtons. Never has.” The old woman almost looked like she was reveling in the ruckus.
“Great, so it’s racist too. I might have to tell my father about this mutt.”
“Father? What
do you...?” The woman stopped, looking at Tim.
Matt didn’t see this stopping anytime soon, and he had a quick idea about how to finish it. He ducked inside, swiping his Canal & River Trust raincoat and slinging it on. He went back outside and cleared his throat loudly.
The scene at the side of the canal froze. It almost seemed like even the dogs looked round at who had made a sound. Of course, that was silly, but they at least seemed to quieten down. The humans finally acknowledged the boat and the occupants of it. Rachel looked at Matt and smiled. Tim looked a little confused. And the woman turned her thunder on him.
Matt gave it a beautiful second before he spoke up. “Sir, I have done all the preliminary checks I need to do. So when you wish, we are ready to set off. Do you need help with those crates, Mr. Claypath?”
Matt had said the magic word. Claypath. Tim smiled as he understood. The woman’s face quickly changed, from the initial thunder to a storm, to a weak rainfall. “Hmm,” she said. The dogs were still quietly going at it, but she grabbed the Newfoundland, almost mounting it, and pushed it on. She gave a snide look at Tim as she passed and the Newfoundland followed its master by growling at him. Amy looked after them, still yapping away.
“Amy,” Matt said, and her little head whipped around. In a second, she had jumped onto the boat and leaped up into Matt’s outstretched arms.
“Not sure who was happier to see you,” Robert muttered.
Tim and Rachel beamed at him. “Smooth work, McConnell. Very nice and stylish. Using your station to great effect.” He jumped onto the boat and gave Rachel a hand across the gap. The boat bobbed slightly, settling as it got used to its new passengers. “This is a nice boat. Props go to Edmund’s uncle, huh?”
Matt didn’t want to tell Tim why exactly saying his name worked so well. That woman with the dog was Liz Crusher, and her fear of the Claypath name was for a different reason entirely. Even if it was woefully unfounded. He shook away the thought and forgot Crusher.
Now You See Me Page 6
