Sound

by Catherine Fearns

  ‘Did she give the address?’

  ‘Yep.’ Colette smiled knowingly. ‘Lumina Building. Where else, hey?’

  ‘Fuck. Time to pay him a visit.’

  It was mercifully cloudy as Darren and Colette walked over the road to the Lumina building, so they didn’t have to squint or shield their eyes quite as much as usual. Darren loathed this silver monstrosity with every fibre of his being. Across the road, the Lumina II site had been tactfully and quickly razed to the ground. All that was left was a fenced-off square plot. There were plans to build a memorial playground, funded by Forrest Group of course, to remind people of the danger of fireworks.

  They arrived at the grand doorway to the Lumina apartments, on the side street near the hotel entrance, and rang the doorbell. The concierge buzzed them in and stood at the desk, expectantly.

  ‘Hello, we’re looking for an Oliver Hecht, I believe he lives here?’ asked Colette.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give out details of our residents. But I can tell you that no-one of that name lives here.’

  Darren had been expecting an answer like that, so he took the opportunity to scan the desk area while Colette continued to speak to the concierge. A pile of letters and parcels, none of them addressed to an Oliver Hecht. But there was a name on one letter that Darren did recognise. Jonathan Dunn.

  They left through the revolving doors and stood outside to think through their next move.

  ‘It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. If you work all hours in a nightclub, now might be around the time you get up and… go to the gym.’ He motioned to the glass-fronted health club which formed the back half of the Lumina ground floor. One of its flagship perks, positioned at ground level so that gym-goers could watch the world going on outside as they exercised, and passers-by could fantasise about the luxurious lifestyle just out of their reach.

  Darren and Colette walked down the street past the glass-fronted exercise machines to the separate gym entrance. Unlike Max Killy’s Seaforth Muscle Gym, which stank of stale sweat, dust and plastic, this place was scented with expensive deodorant and new carpet.

  The receptionist was on the telephone, so she couldn’t stop them wandering past the desk and looking onto the main gym floor. Darren’s eyes scanned the black pneumatic pistons of the exercise machines, moving with industrialised whispers, the fluorescent bodies moving rhythmically in mirrors, the confusing array of flatscreens tilted from the ceiling. There were about ten people exercising. In the far corner, hunched over an upright bicycle, he saw a head of blond hair, freckled shoulders, expensive trainers. The man looked up. They made eye contact, and Darren saw someone he recognised. It was Jonathan Dunn. And Jonathan Dunn was Oliver Hecht, was the environmental consultant, was the sound technician. He was also, Darren was willing to bet, the masked shooter spotted in Aigburth. This was Forrest’s new right hand man. Darren had known it, somewhere inside, since that Napier community meeting.

  Oliver looked even more concerned than Darren had expected. He jumped off his bike, almost tripping over in the process, as one foot was tangled in the pedal strap. He ran across the gym and burst through a door into the men’s changing rooms. Darren ran after him, leaping over equipment, to the consternation of the receptionist and Colette, who was left standing there.

  Darren followed Oliver through the changing rooms and into the swimming pool area, sprinting after him as they both skidded along the slippery poolside. The man was heading for the emergency exit, and he pushed through the barriered door, setting off the alarm. He turned right towards the front of the Lumina building, and Darren ran after him, shouting ‘Oliver! Police! We just want to talk to you, stop!’ They continued the chase down Wapping, which was beginning to fill up with afternoon traffic. They dodged passers-by, and at one side-street crossing Oliver rolled over the bonnet of a black cab that screeched to a halt just in time for Darren to edge past it, putting his hands out to apologise.

  Oliver ran across the three lanes of Wapping onto the central reservation, where he was momentarily trapped. They both stopped to plan their next move.

  ‘Oliver. I just wanna talk to you,’ Darren called.

  Oliver wavered for moment, panting and out of breath, then darted backwards onto the other lanes of traffic. A bus swerved to avoid him and skidded sideways, causing a miniature pile-up, as several cars smashed into each other with a series of metallic clashes followed by screams and shouts. Traffic stopped on both sides of the road. Darren tried to thread his way through the chaos, but Oliver had escaped onto the far pavement before the crash, and Darren could see him sprinting away into the distance. He doubled over to catch his breath for a second before pulling out his phone, at the same time that Colette came running up alongside.

  ‘Jesus, he could have been killed,’ she said, panting and holding her side. ‘He just stepped out in front of a bus. He was acting guilty as hell.’

  ‘He looked scared. I recognised him, Colette. He wasn’t just Oliver Hecht.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘He was Jonathan Dunn. The environmental health consultant, or fake consultant, who was hired by the council to measure the methane levels on the Napier Estate. I saw him when I went to the Napier community meeting. I thought he looked young then. I’d be willing to bet that he didn’t measure anything at all, and that he planted himself there, instructed by Forrest, to be spotted by residents.’

  ‘So Jonathan Dunn was a fake name. And Oliver Hecht is Shawn Forrest’s boy. You don’t have any evidence, though.’

  ‘I can get evidence. If I show Oliver Hecht’s photo to the Napier residents, they will confirm it’s Jonathan Dunn, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Anyway, he won’t get far on foot, with alerts out for him. We’ll pick him up in no time.’

  ‘Possibly not. Because if he’s our shooter as well, and we’ve outed him, Forrest has no use for him anymore. And we all know what happens when Forrest has no use for people.’

  ‘They disappear.’

  Darren called the incident in, and then Colette headed back to the station to oversee the search. Darren wasn’t ready to go anywhere. He didn’t know where he was headed, but knew where he didn’t want to be – home or Canning Place. He wandered around the city for a while, agonising about Oliver Hecht, and thinking that everything he touched seemed to turn into disaster.

  Thirty-One

  After her working day at the university, Helen lingered in the city for a while before it was time to make her way, not home to her Toxteth apartment, but to Total Depravity’s rented house in Formby. It was only a week since the band had arrived in Liverpool, but it was almost expected that she would stay over there now. Everything had happened so quickly. Here was Mikko back in her life, and Darren at the same time, and she had both of them on her mind. She knew Mikko liked her, her intellect, the fact that she was different to all the girls he’d had before. But that was the problem, because once the novelty of an ex-nun wore off, and he went back to Norway or went away on tour, what could she offer him? Their lifestyles were completely incompatible – that much was already evident. It was late afternoon and he would just be having breakfast now. How would she be able to compete with the girls he would meet on the road, with their make-up, quips, and willingness to do things she had never even heard of. Sometimes when she heard the others talking in Norwegian she guessed they were talking about sex and she felt prudish. He didn’t seem to mind, but she bet the others wondered what he saw in her.

  She lingered outside a department store and then went in, wandering around the beauty counters, then the lingerie department, wondering what she could buy to improve herself, hating herself for thinking that consumerism could solve her insecurities. Yesterday she had overheard Anders saying something complimentary about her, but then there was laughter, and her brief swell of pride had turned to humiliation.

  She left the department store and looked around her, trying to see the city in a new way. She no longer had to devote her
life to pleasing God. Now, instead of a deity, she wanted to please two mortal men – Mikko and Darren. She was a words person, not a pictures person, but she so desperately wanted to figure out Darren’s spectrogram puzzle. She felt it was the key to something bigger than all of them. Professor Neilson had given them a map. But a map of what? She held the print-out in both hands and turned around a few times in the middle of the square. In order to see the city in a new way, she decided to take some unfamiliar roads, and she wandered up and down some of the back streets around the shopping area.

  Helen eventually found herself outside Foxy Ladies. An expensive concept store that trod a gilded line between glamorous and tacky, it was all white, with golden regal lettering on the sign. Was it a coincidence that only a few days ago she had been at the home of its proprietor, Val Killy? Come on, Helen, she berated herself. You’ve been heading here this whole time. She examined her motives and knew why she was there. Helen wanted to see more of this Val, wanted to understand her own motivation. Wanted to find out more about the babies. And, of course, she teased herself, it would be an added bonus if she could buy something fashionable to make herself look more like Justine, and less like a theology lecturer.

  But she was soon disabused of this idea. When she entered the shop the first display table was piled with handbags, all in leather and bedecked with crystals. She caught sight of a price tag, and almost recoiled as she had done on entering the STIGMA dungeon. This bag cost almost double what Mikko had paid for the Ars Adramelechum. It was clear she had entered yet another parallel world in which she did not belong. The dresses were so beautiful, though. There were almost too many of them, racks and rails crammed with gowns, some in clear plastic wrapping to protect them, as if they were just overstock in a bargain outlet, rather than beautiful and individual designer pieces. Helen felt that these dresses needed more respect, more space to be admired. Who could afford to buy these, she wondered, in a city of such poverty?

  Val Killy was at the counter, serving a young couple who both wore tracksuits and gleaming white trainers. The boy looked no more than twenty-five, yet he took from his pocket a wad of fifty-pound notes, held together by a silver clip, and peeled off several to pay for a pair of jeans for his girlfriend. Footballer? Drug dealer? Gangster’s son? Helen imagined Darren would know.

  ‘Ah, nice one, thanks, babe,’ said the girl, kissing him as she took the shopping bag Val handed her.

  ‘Sound, yeah,’ said the boy, a wiry ball of the scouse energy that was oddly both nervous and effusive. ‘When are you gonna start doing men’s clobber, Val? I need to get meself some kecks and all.’

  ‘We were going to open a bigger store in the Lumina II, but obviously that’s on hold now,’ she said, raising her eyebrows knowingly as they nodded, all solemn for a moment. ‘Ta-ra then loves, see yers next time.’

  As the couple left, arm in arm, Helen and Val were left alone in the shop.

  ‘Can I help you, love?’ Val said, without looking up from her till at first. Then, when she did, her face fell. ‘Oh. Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Killy. We met the other day.’ Helen now wished the ground would swallow her up.

  It’s a small world, isn’t it,’ Val said, a hostile tone to her voice. ‘There’s a million people in this city, but sometimes it feels like you know everyone.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. I’m Helen. I was admiring your beautiful house and your beautiful grandson.’

  ‘And bothering my daughter. It’s her house, not mine.’

  Val had come out from behind the counter and had her arms folded in an aggressive stance. She was a formidable woman, with her deep-set eyes, firm mouth that rested in a slight grimace, and straight, confident posture. But Helen had spent much of her life being intimidated by the formidable figure of Deaconess Margaret. She reminded herself that this woman, Val Killy, was a member of a notorious crime family and perhaps did not deserve her respect.

  ‘No actually, it was the opposite of bothering her, I hope. Darren and I are worried about her. We think she is vulnerable and in danger.’

  Val was silent for a moment, then her mouth quivered and she crumpled into tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Helen, moving forward and placing a hand tentatively on Val’s upper arm. ‘Perhaps we could close the shop for a few minutes, and I could make you a cup of tea.’

  To her surprise, Val submitted, and allowed herself to be led into the little staff room at the back of the shop. And now Helen was back in her element, counselling, listening. She made them two cups of tea and sat opposite her at the small table next to the microwave. There was a long pause while she waited for Val to take the lead.

  Eventually, Val said, ‘Justine is my only child.’

  ‘She is so beautiful, Mrs Killy. And she looks just like you.’

  Helen wasn’t lying; the resemblance between mother and daughter was striking. But Val grimaced, her mouth turning down at the corners. ‘It’s not like we haven’t both had plenty of work done to look like this, you know.’ She paused again. ‘I haven’t been the best mother. It’s Val, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Val. But I’ve seen you being a wonderful grandmother. Justine is very lucky.’

  ‘I love that baby to bits. But he’s not the grandson everyone believes he is.’

  ‘You think he’s…’

  ‘Shawn Forrest’s. Course he is. You’ve seen him.’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. Val, why did your daughter choose to have an affair with someone like Shawn Forrest? He was once a violent man, and most likely still is. Perhaps there was an element of coercion. Perhaps the police can help?’

  ‘She knew what she was doing. At the beginning, at least. It all started to get back at her uncle Max.’

  ‘Max? Your brother, who died in the summer?’

  ‘Justine hated Max. Hated him with a passion. I know, it’s hard to imagine her being passionate about anything. But Justine’s father, my husband, he worked for Max. When Justine was little, he took the flack for a job gone wrong and went down for five years. It’s just what you do, you know. In the business. Do the time, show your loyalty, get rewarded afterwards. But he was killed in prison, in a fight.’

  ‘That’s terrible, I’m really sorry. It must have been very hard for you and Justine. So she blamed Max for her father’s death.’

  ‘There were other reasons.’ Val sipped her tea, and looked for a moment as if she might elaborate. ‘But yeah. That was the main reason she hated him. So she got off with his main rival, Shawn, and there was nothing he could do about it. She wanted to get back at me, too. For engineering this marriage.’

  ‘You were very keen for her to marry Thomas?’

  ‘It was me who set them up. Look, Justine’s not the sharpest tool in the box, is she? She didn’t get a single qualification at school, and she was never going to get anywhere if I didn’t give her a helping hand. If you’re beautiful in Liverpool you’re only a couple of steps away from bagging a footballer, and it was too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘What about Thomas? He must have had to agree to it.’

  ‘There had been a couple of rumours, and he needed to get the press off his back.’

  ‘Rumours that he was gay, you mean?’

  ‘He’s never admitted it. But it’s obvious. That policeman, Darren Swift, he used to do close protection on our house a few years ago, and you could have cut the atmosphere between them like a knife. Anyway, Thomas could probably have got away with it here in Liverpool, no-one’s bothered either way. But have you heard what they chant at some matches? Football is dead homophobic, you know.’

  They were silent again. Helen took a deep breath, then ventured:

  ‘I went to Les Paons, you know.’

  Val looked up suddenly, a horrified expression on her face. ‘What d’you mean? You went to Thomas’s village? Why were you there?’

  ‘It was during the investigation into the fires o
ver the summer. I was helping Darren and.. we made a connection between that village and the book. The Ars Adramelechum. It’s… hard to explain.’

  ‘That bloody book. She’d hardly read a book in her life before that. And things have never been the same since.’

  ‘Val. I know you spent some time in Les Paons, after Justine got engaged to Thomas. Tell me what happened there. I think… I think it might be very important.’

  ‘God. That was a weird time. We only agreed to go for a couple of days, to meet his family. It was bloody awful. Don’t get me wrong, it was absolutely beautiful in those mountains. But you’d go mad if you actually had to live there. And they were all mad in that village.’

  Val told her about that strange summer, three years ago, when she and Justine had gone to stay in Thomas Kuper’s family village before the wedding, in accordance with Swiss mountain tradition.

  ‘Thomas had grown up with his grandmother. It’s all quite vague, what happened to his parents. And she was a cold, cold woman. She gave me the creeps. But for some reason, she took a shine to Justine. She would take her on long walks round and round the churchyard, they’d stay up late talking… Me and Thomas didn’t know what to do with ourselves. After a couple of days, I couldn’t stand it in that chalet anymore – it was so bloody hot and the hay was giving me allergies. So I moved into a hotel in Geneva. I tried to get Justine to come too, but she insisted on staying.’

  The days became weeks. Uprooted from her familiar environment, Val could find nothing to cling to in Switzerland, either in the mountains nor in the quaint city of Geneva. She wandered the streets, shopping, except that, in those days before Justine and Thomas married, the high-end designer stores on the Rue du Rhone were just out of reach. The tradition would have been for the engaged couple to spend six months in the village, but that was impossible for Thomas with his football commitments, so after two weeks he returned to Liverpool, and Val went with him.