Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  She perused him, head to one side, and finally nodded. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m able to do that.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘If you want to. I’ll phone with my address, later.’

  Her personal confidence, he realised, was all a show. Her voice held an indefinable quality that could probably quell a dissident class of anti-social brats. She was a strong woman. Brave. But under that, she was vulnerable. Not the sort to give in to hysteria or break down under stress. If she did crack, he suspected it would be nuclear.

  But her visit had broken through his shell of self-pity. Her loss was, he had to admit, greater than his. And she’d left him a gift of dubious merit: the knowledge that the police thought the man who had caused his crash had caused at least one other. He tried to recall the face that had peered in at him when he’d been enclosed in the womb of his car, resigned to dying, but only found an elusive memory, overwritten by Sarah’s more recent smile.

  After Helen’s visit, Robin contacted Redwall again, requesting details. He left yet another message, but included in it a brief comment asking for details of other incidents that might have been caused by the same perpetrator. In the light of the usual lack of response, he trawled through everything about the Stinger Killer pileup that was online. RUSH HOUR ARMAGEDDON and LORD’S DAUGHTER MANGLED IN STINGER KILLER PILE-UP. Was that the one that had coined the phrase? Every single paper in the country had run front-page headlines with glaringly stark photographs of the victims of the Stinger’s Pile-up, dead, trapped, burning, anything gory enough to satisfy people’s lust for the misfortunes of others.

  As Robin pored over every picture, magnified to the point of pixilation, trying to find his own car in the mess, he wondered how many papers he’d read in the past, never seeing them as more than entertainment. He never found his car in the pictures, and no-one cared about the bright young rising star, Robin Vanger, because he hadn’t died. He wasn’t considered good copy. He’d been trapped for hours, broken to pieces, and bolted back together with lumps of metal through his flesh. Wasn’t that news?

  It should have been.

  For the first time, he imagined someone standing by the side of the road pressing a button. What kind of person would have done that? And wouldn’t the guy have been afraid of being killed in the ensuing mayhem? No, it didn’t make sense. The killer would have made sure of his own safety. It must have been done remotely. Even murdering bastards who cared nothing for the lives of others didn’t want to die, themselves.

  Chapter 14

  When Sarah turned up at his house, three weeks had slipped by. She came unexpectedly, in the early evening, when he’d decided it was over. It being something that had never really started. A wish, maybe, a hope. His pleasure at seeing her made him nervous.

  ‘Sarah! Come in. I’ll make coffee.’

  Her response was a fleeting smile, soon fading. ‘Thanks. I’m on duty soon, so only have a few minutes.’ She checked her phone, almost flustered, as she stepped in, but didn’t cast off the waterproof jacket, beneath which she was wearing her uniform. ‘I came to drop these around. I thought you might need some reading material. I should have come before. Sorry.’

  She dumped some paperbacks on the coffee table, her eyes taking his home in at a glance: the open plan L-shaped lounge-diner-kitchen, the open stairs, the wide patio doors to his tiny brick-walled garden, and a doorway through to a utility area and downstairs cloakroom. Everything seemed to shrink under her gaze. He’d been meaning to change his parents’ old chairs for a new suite, and he hated the fading Constable print his mother had bought so many years before. Why hadn’t he thrown it out, and bought something real? He scraped some papers off a chair, and indicated.

  ‘The place could do with a lick of paint. Sorry about the mess.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, perching on the edge with the air of someone who had no intention of settling in. Her voice was chirpy, artificially bright. ‘So, are you managing all right? Is someone doing your shopping? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘I’m doing OK.’

  He hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt, but his imagination had seen Sarah a little more comfortable in his home. Perhaps he’d imagined the tentative interest he had sensed in her. If not, why had she come at all?

  ‘I came to see if there was anything I could do to help,’ she said, almost in response to his unvoiced irritation.

  ‘I don’t need help. I’m doing fine. Look,’ he waved his arms. ‘Three weeks, and no sticks. The Physio bloke said I should use them both for several months, and I might need one forever, but it seems not.’

  ‘You’re improving faster than expected?’

  ‘Seems like it. I can’t say I’m sorry. I didn’t make a good invalid.’

  ‘Who does?’

  Her brightly facile response was followed by the sound of the kettle boiling, and switching itself off. She leapt up. ‘Let me do it.’

  He grimaced and shrugged, but she was already discovering her way around his kitchen space. Sarah, the subject of his frustrated imagination, was in his home, yet he sensed that her visit was a chore, and she just couldn’t wait to leave. She brought mugs in, and placed them on the table, along with the packet of biscuits she’d discovered on the worktop.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  She dunked a biscuit, and said, ‘There’s a chilly wind today. It might rain, apparently.’

  Robin smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m not being a good host. You caught me on the hop. I thought you weren’t going to come.’

  ‘I kind of thought that, too, but –’

  ‘He felt a prickle of hope. But?’

  ‘Well, I tried to make myself believe that my attraction towards you was just pity.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She laughed. ‘Stop fishing. Robin, I’m here. It’s embarrassing. I feel as though I’ve been caught chasing. Tell me it’s OK.’

  ‘I can’t tell you quite how OK it is. I’d given up on you. I can only say I’m so pleased I can’t find the words.’

  She nodded, almost to herself. ‘OK, then. Now what? Have you got any plans for the future?’

  He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t wait to get home, but now I’m here, I’m lonely. I don’t have any plans. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I had hospital blues, but now I’m getting housebound blues and rest-of-my-life blues.’

  ‘Clearly, you need motivation. Are you well enough to go back to work?

  ‘Apparently not for several months.’

  ‘Will you go back to the bank?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know if I want to. But I have to do something. I was, ah, customer-facing in the bank. I can’t do that anymore, and I don’t want to crunch numbers in some cubby hole.’

  She appraised his face openly. ‘The scar is fading, you know. It’s not as prominent as it was.’

  ‘Maybe, but I feel like the elephant man. People stare, then quickly look away, whistling.’

  ‘You can’t blame them. It’s a normal reaction. Once you get out and about, people will get used to you. And while you’re about it, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You could be dead.’

  ‘I wished I was, before, but I got over it.’

  ‘Good. You being dead wouldn’t offer much hope for a relationship.’

  He couldn’t keep the grin from his face. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘So, what did you dream of doing, while that boring life in banking was trundling on? Did you secretly wish you could do a parachute jump, go white-water rafting, see the Amazon rainforest, go to the moon? Did you ever think about driving a motorbike? Hang on, that’s not such a good idea. Didn’t you have anything remotely adventurous in your soul?’

  ‘Not really. I never wanted to do anything dangerous. I liked my job security. I must have been really boring’ He assessed her, and asked curiously, ‘Do you dream of doing those things?’

  ‘Not really. But I want to live. Without the thrill of anticipation,
life is just existence. You could do dangerous things and live to be ninety. You could work for the bank and have a heart attack at fifty. Or you could have an accident, out of the blue, and survive it. So, you’ve had a wakeup call. A second chance at life. At actually living.’

  ‘And that from someone who’s just a nurse?’

  ‘It was just a nurse who saved your sorry arse. Maybe she shouldn’t have.’

  He fiddled with his mug on the table. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘Then show it. Do something interesting with your second chance. Tell me my actions weren’t a waste of time.’

  ‘Will you go out with me?’ The words slid out before he could stop them.

  ‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. But now, I should go, or I’ll be late.’ She stood and held out her hand. ‘So, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and come and find me. Until then, I wish you all the best for a long, boring life.’

  ‘You have a way of making a bloke feel small.’

  ‘Good. Surprise yourself. Learn to love life.’

  She leaned forward, and pecked him on the cheek.

  ‘I will. I do,’ he said, and meant it.

  After she had gone, he touched his skin where she’d kissed him, and couldn’t stop smiling.

  Chapter 15

  Robin opened the door, and Chief Inspector Redwall’s gaze automatically flicked to his facial scars, a prominent reminder of his shave with death. Robin’s equally candid gaze assessed him, one brow rising in query. Redwall was under no illusions: vastly over-weight, thinning on top, and with a slightly seedy air to his over-sized clothing, he wasn’t out to impress.

  ‘Chief Inspector Redwall? I’d given up on you.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a busy man. May I come in for a moment?’

  As one of Robin’s brows rose in query, the puckering rent down his face made him look evil. Then he shrugged, and stepped back, indicating an open plan living room to the right, and the moment passed. Redwall stepped into a light, airy room, shabby in the kind of way that shouted of bachelor neglect. He had supposed Robin to be the kind of bloke who’d have a showpiece home, copied out of some glossy magazine.

  ‘Take a seat. Shall I get a coffee?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I hope I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  He collapsed heavily into an outdated armchair, which groaned in protest. Robin limped after him, lowering himself into another chair with more care. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.’

  ‘So I see. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Better than anyone expected. Being crippled is preferable to being an amputee.’

  ‘I can imagine. I’m sorry I didn’t come before, but I’m here now. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m curious about the progress of the investigation. I offered to help. Have you made any headway at all, in finding the guy, I mean?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation with you. I can tell you that we’ve sifted so much paper I could build a fire that would escalate global warming.’

  ‘It’s called Climate Change these days. Shame about all those trees, though.’

  That surprised Redwall. He’d thought Robin was all about the money. ‘You’ve been haranguing my office, and in all honesty, I get it. But I can’t tell you anything you didn’t get from the newspapers. We haven’t a clue. Literally.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not a social visit, and you have nothing to give me – what are you here for?’

  Redwall came to the point. ‘I understand Helen Speakman came to see you a little over a week ago.’

  Robin’s crooked brows drew together in confusion at the change of direction. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘So, you knew her before that time?’

  ‘No. She arrived here out of the blue. I don’t know her at all. Derek, our joint shrink, thought we might help each other to come to terms with our respective traumas.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He was awarded a wry smile. ‘We didn’t get off to the brightest of starts but – well, she’s a nice woman. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. And probably didn’t deserve what the press did to her afterwards. Once I met her, I looked it up. As one would. I didn’t realise that was who it was, at first. I’d vaguely seen the story at the time, who hadn’t? It was weird enough. She’s going to tell me her side of the story when she’s ready.’

  Redwall hesitated a moment. ‘Did she come across as, ah, lucid?’

  ‘As lucid as a woman could be at the loss of a child, I guess. She loved that kid to distraction. She probably is slightly crazy, who wouldn’t be? I think she’ll get over it in time. I hope so. No one deserves that. She’s hurting like hell, trying to cope. Which is probably more than I was doing, till she came around and put me straight.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  Robin shifted, inadvertently wincing with pain. ‘Not really. More like a tantrum. And if I want to sulk, that’s still my prerogative.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘She told you that?’

  ‘More or less told me I was acting like a spoiled brat, that I should get over myself. In the light of her tragedy, I kind of see her point.’

  ‘You didn’t talk about the crash?’

  ‘It came up in the conversation. But she knew, already. That’s why Derek sent her here.’

  ‘How long did she stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. An hour, maybe less.’

  ‘And when she left, did she say where she was going?’

  ‘Home, I think.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was going to ring with her address. Apparently, it was my turn to visit her, and if I can’t drive, well, I should be able to call a cab.’

  ‘She was snippy?’

  ‘Honest, I’d say. Straight up. I didn’t mind, actually. She was right. I was wallowing. I mean, it’s difficult not to. Especially now I have time on my hands. That’s why I called you. I’d like to read through the reports. I could be useful. I was a good analyst.’

  ‘So, you’ve never been to Helen’s home?’

  ‘I told you. I don’t even know where it is. Why the interest in Helen Speakman?’ His voice attained a wary edge. ‘Hasn’t she been hounded enough? The press pilloried her, from the sound of it.’

  Robin adjusted his leg. Obviously, he couldn’t bend it properly, but the pins were gone, and it was covered up, which Redwall was pleased about. He’d seen some fairly horrible things in his time, but flesh with iron bars sinking in at intervals was unnerving, like something out of a horror movie.

  ‘Mr Vanger. I’d be the first to agree with you, only we can’t leave her alone. Helen’s dead. Murdered,’ he added.

  The silence hung between them, before Robin echoed, with disbelief, ‘Murdered?’

  Redwall understood that the unspoken question meant: how, why, when, who? ‘Was that all you spoke about? Your crash, her loss? Was there anything else you can recall?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘And you didn’t get, ah, more friendly?’

  Robin’s voice hardened. ‘With a woman who was grieving for her daughter? Give me a break!’

  Redwall had to agree with that statement. After his own son died, sex pretty much had taken a back seat in his own marriage. It seemed lacking in respect, somehow.

  Robin added, almost inconsequentially. ‘Besides, she’s older than me. She could be my mother. Nearly.’

  ‘Did she speak to you at all after that day?’

  ‘No. I told you I didn’t see her –’

  ‘Or speak on the phone?’

  ‘No. As I said, I should have. We kind of agreed, but it didn’t happen.’ Realisation registered in the sudden widening of his eyes. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’

  The DCI allowed the remark to fall into silence, and watched disbelief form – slackened facial muscles, dilation of the eyes – be-fore he denied the accusation. ‘Of course not. It’s just that you were possibly the last person
to see her alive.’

  ‘Except for the murderer.’ Robin pressed fingers to his temple as if to ward off an impending headache. ‘Can you tell me what happened to her?’

  ‘The details? No. Not at the moment.’

  After a pause, Robin asked, ‘Do you believe that when we’re born, we already have parts of our lives mapped out? How we live? How we die? And all the stuff in-between?’

  ‘Karma? No. Most of the things I deal with are generated by the more antisocial elements of humanity, not fate.’

  ‘It just seems that someone, or something, had it in for her.’

  There was a short silence before the DCI drew the interview to a close by standing, and picking up his battered briefcase. But the catch gave, and the contents went tumbling to the carpet.

  ‘Hell,’ he said. Robin made to help, but he waved him back. ‘It’s OK, I’ve got it.’

  He jammed the papers inside, and closed the catch with a slam of the hand, before heaving himself to his feet. ‘I should get rid of this, get a new one, but it was a present, and it seems disloyal, somehow. Well, I’m sorry to have come with bad news.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any help. Hell!’ Robin shook his head. ‘You can’t help feeling she’s had a raw deal out of life. The chances of her losing her husband and daughter in a crash, and then being the target of some other homicidal maniac a few months later, are rather long odds.’

  What were the odds against a couple losing both children when they were still in their teens, Redwall wondered? Yet it happened to him and his wife. ‘Some people do just have bad luck. Odds are just statistical possibilities, which, as an analyst, you know very well.’

  Robin struggled to his feet, and limped before him to the front door. As he opened it, he asked, ‘Do you think Helen was targeted in some way?’

  Redwall paused. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, but coincidences ring alarm bells. I’d discount everything else before believing in one.’

  ‘Me, too.’ Redwall stepped out, and acknowledged Robin with a brief salute. ‘Let me know if you turn anything up. We’ve drawn a blank, so far.’