by M. J. Ford
‘You okay with stairs?’ Srai asked.
‘Sure.’
As they entered the stairwell, Srai continued. ‘Mum went home last night. They have another son to look after. Niall will be going home soon – we have a few final obs to carry out.’
‘You’re discharging him?’ said Jo. ‘So he’s okay?’
‘That depends on your criteria,’ said the doctor. ‘Physically, he’s doing as well as can be expected. We’ve given him plenty of fluids and small amounts of food.’
Jo needed to know. ‘So no signs of sexual assault?’
‘Sorry,’ said Srai. ‘We can’t talk about that without the parents’ permission.’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s quite confused,’ said Srai. ‘Late last night he was very upset, shouting at his parents. He said someone was coming for him. We had to sedate him. It’s principally his psychological state we’re concerned about now, but that’s not something we can address in this environment.’
‘He was practically catatonic when we found him,’ said Jo.
On the third floor, Srai buzzed them into the paediatric suite, and they passed several large colourful wards filled with children. There were a few parents too, in small huddles around the beds, but most were alone. Jo caught the eye of a child with a completely hairless head – she couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. She winked and the kid waved back.
‘There’s a waiting room in there,’ said Dr Srai. ‘Help yourself to tea and coffee, though I wouldn’t recommend the latter.’
Jo sat down, looking at the posters on the wall, with cartoon characters and smiling kids espousing the benefits of washing hands or advising on the early signs of meningitis. A box of knackered-looking toys sat in the corner, next to a stack of magazines and boardbooks. Over the years, Jo had spent plenty of time in hospitals in the line of duty, waiting to question victims and suspects alike. They were all the same, right down to the scuffed speckled lino on the floor, and the smell of the disinfectant not quite masking the scents of bodies doing what bodies did when they were compromised. Her dad had been admitted at the end to this very hospital, after losing consciousness. Mum had done nothing but talk in complete denial about a time ‘when we get him home’, and he’d died two weeks later without ever opening his eyes. Jo’s mum had said it was a good way to go, somehow forgetting that he’d been ‘going’ for the last two years, and that it had been anything but good.
McDonagh appeared about ten minutes later, his paper tucked under his arm.
Jo stood up. ‘Professor.’
‘Detective,’ he said. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I dropped by to see how Niall’s doing.’
‘Oh, right. Of course.’ He glanced along the corridor, then looked back at her. ‘My wife and I … we owe you our thanks. Your colleague, Detective Carrick, he told us it was down to you.’
‘It was a team effort,’ said Jo. ‘I’m just happy we found Niall.’
McDonagh looked momentarily pained. ‘He won’t talk to us,’ he said. ‘Won’t tell us what happened.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Jo. ‘It might be that he doesn’t remember things clearly.’
McDonagh’s fists clenched and unclenched. He’s not equipped for this, she thought. Few people were.
‘The doctors say … well, they examined him. They say that monster didn’t do anything.’
Jo smiled, encouragingly. Small mercies.
‘Would it be all right if I spoke to him?’
McDonagh looked perplexed. ‘Why?’
Here we go, crunch time. Get this wrong and the opportunity’s lost.
‘We’re just closing off enquiries,’ said Jo. ‘There’s a possibility that Alan Trent is involved in a wider network of criminal individuals. As he’s deceased, there might be something Niall can tell us – even if it seems inconsequential – that can further those enquiries.’
McDonagh’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t know, detective. He’s very confused about things. We haven’t told him Trent is dead, and he keeps saying … well, it doesn’t matter. He’s just getting things muddled up.’
‘Muddled up how?’
‘I don’t think Trent was right in the head,’ said McDonagh. ‘That’s stating the obvious, I suppose, but it sounds like he might have been, y’know, sort of schizophrenic. Niall says he wasn’t that bad sometimes, but when he put on the mask he was different.’
Jo picked her words carefully. ‘It would really help if I could talk to him,’ she said. ‘We just don’t want this to happen to anyone else.’
‘Yes,’ said Niall’s father, with the tiniest bob of the head.
She followed him to the last door in the corridor. In a smaller ward, only a single bed of the four was occupied. Niall was half reclined, facing away from the window, and Jo assumed he was asleep. But at the sound of their footsteps, he turned. In the hospital nightshirt, he looked very young, his eyelids droopy.
‘Hi Dad,’ he said.
Professor McDonagh kissed his son on the cheek. ‘Niall, there’s someone here to talk to you. A policewoman. Her name is Detective Masters.’
‘Josie, please,’ she said.
Niall didn’t reply.
‘Is that all right?’ said Jo.
‘You were down there,’ he said. ‘You found me.’
‘I did. And I’m very glad you’re safe now.’
Niall appeared to be processing the information.
‘Dad, can I have a drink please?’ he said. His father reached for a plastic cup. ‘Maybe a Coke?’ said Niall. ‘From the machine?’
McDonagh glanced at Jo, then at Niall. ‘You’ll be all right on your own?’
Niall nodded.
‘I’ll stay right here with him,’ said Jo, taking a seat next to the bed.
‘Okay,’ said his father. ‘The vending machine’s in reception. Back in a minute.’
He left the room.
‘Were you the one who arrested Al?’ said Niall, as soon as the door closed.
Al?
‘Alan Trent?’ said Jo. ‘I was.’
He stared at her with an intensity that made her look away.
‘He can’t hurt you now,’ she said.
‘I know he’s dead,’ he said. ‘Kieran told me.’
Jo, knocked off guard, didn’t know what to say.
‘Dad keeps saying how evil he was,’ said Niall, ‘but he wasn’t. He was scared too. Cried more than me.’
‘Scared of what?’ asked Jo.
‘Him. The clown.’ Niall swallowed, and his eyes brimmed with tears. ‘They won’t listen to me. Dad just gets angry.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Jo.
‘You believe me?’
‘Of course. This clown, what was he like?’
‘He was big,’ said Niall, staring into space. ‘Bigger than Al. Kind of hunched though.’
Jo was suddenly back in Yarnton, trying to find her friends, and seeing the two figures walking away from the fair – the giant and the child.
She resisted taking out her pocketbook. Niall’s eyes were unfocused. He was back underground, in his memory. She wondered how long McDonagh would be getting to the vending machine and back. If he’d take the lift or the stairs.
‘And he wore a mask too?’
‘Not a mask. I think it was … make-up or something.’
‘Clown make-up?’
Niall swallowed again, and his breathing seemed to catch. ‘I don’t know. His face was white. Like, really white. All of him was.’
Jo flinched. ‘All of him?’
‘All his skin. He didn’t have any clothes on.’
Her stomach was turning. She knew she should stop. ‘He was naked?’
‘No. I couldn’t see his privates. He had a … a cloth or something. I couldn’t really see. It was dark, and I didn’t want to look. It was cold down there, but he didn’t care.’
Jo forced herself to refocus. ‘So he was a
tall, white man. How old do you think, Niall?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Older than your dad? Younger?’
‘It was dark, I told you. He had bad teeth. Bad breath. He got really close. He kept sniffing.’
‘And did he hurt you?’
Niall pressed his lips together, looked heavenward, like his eyes were searching for a way out of his memories.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Jo. ‘It’s all right.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Niall. ‘He didn’t fiddle with me or whatever you’re thinking. My shoulder. He bit me. It wasn’t that hard really. It was like he was … I don’t know, tasting me or something.’
Christ.
‘I shouted at him, told him to fuck off and leave me alone.’
‘And did he?’
Niall swallowed. ‘He hit me. A couple of times. I thought … I thought he was going to kill me. And I was just shouting at him to leave me alone. Then he did. He was just gone.’
‘Did he say anything? Did he have an accent?’
Niall shook his head. ‘I don’t think he could speak.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He made noises, like he was an animal.’
The hair on Jo’s neck was on end. It sounded to her like there was some element of ritual, or performance even. The strange attire, or lack of, perhaps body paint. It wasn’t a pathology she was familiar with, but it was something a behavioural psychologist might be able to shed light on. Though she doubted Stratton would sign off on anything like that.
‘Niall, this is really important. Did you ever see Alan Trent and this other man at the same time?’
Niall blinked the tears away, suddenly, and fiercely. ‘They weren’t the same person!’ he said. ‘I told you that!’
Jo heard the click of the door at her back.
‘Is everything all right?’ said McDonagh.
‘You said you believed me!’ shouted Niall.
‘I do, I do,’ said Jo.
‘What’s going on?’ asked his father, rushing towards the bed holding a can of Coke.
‘She told me she believed me,’ said Niall. He was sitting bolt upright. ‘But she’s lying. You’re all lying.’ He hit the bed with his fists. ‘I know about Al. I know what you all think, but you’re all wrong. You weren’t there. You didn’t see! He was down there. He’s probably still there now, but you won’t listen. You won’t listen to me!’
He was practically screaming as McDonagh took hold of both shoulders, saying, ‘Calm down! Look at me, Niall,’ before pulling his son’s head into his shoulder. Niall was making a wailing sound, from somewhere deep in his gut, and McDonagh closed his eyes as he held his son.
‘I think you should leave,’ he said to Jo.
Jo stood, silently, and left the room.
* * *
Walking back across the hospital car park, she felt light-headed in the fresh air once more, as if she too had been locked up somewhere dark, only to be released suddenly into the glare of day. She wasn’t sure what to think. It was plain that Niall believed what he said, but what he’d described was something informed by nightmares – a creature dredged up from folklore rather than fact.
The affection for Alan Trent made a sort of sense. She’d seen instances of Stockholm Syndrome before, mostly in cases of domestic violence, when despite bruises, broken teeth and black eyes, the victims point-blank refused to make a formal complaint about their spouses. This felt different though, and she couldn’t buy the multiple personality theory. The physical details were the thing. The tall man, the strange clothing, the teeth, the skin. Trent was none of those things. And if he had dressed up, and changed his appearance as some sort of tactic to distance himself from his actions, where was the evidence of the make-up and strange clothing? They’d found the clown mask in his boot, and nothing else.
Which left the answer she’d been suspecting for some time. This person, this freak who liked to bite little boys, was still out there, and there was no saying what the fuck he wanted.
At her car, she sat weighing the options. Dimitriou and Tan would probably hear her out, but they’d need to follow up, and that could only end up bringing Stratton down on her. He had to listen now, surely. But getting close to Niall again, for any sort of official statement, would be next to impossible. She had to play her cards close, at least until there was something more concrete. There was the RAF base. She could go back and take another look around. There might be something there – anything – to link to the mystery suspect. She wondered where the prints were at.
First though, she went through her recent calls, and dialled Laura Phelps. It was worth one more try.
‘My lawyer told me not to talk to you,’ came the reply. She sounded furious.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve been suspended pending a formal enquiry.’
‘Because of Alan Trent?’
‘Of course because of Alan Trent.’ Her voice cracked a little. ‘They’re saying I should have notified them of the change of address. Jesus. I was trying to do the right thing. He was fucking suicidal. Just look what happened if you don’t believe me.’
‘I understand,’ said Jo.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Please,’ said Jo. ‘I don’t think Trent was responsible. There was someone else.’
‘I told you that,’ said Phelps. ‘Right from the start. You people don’t want to listen, though, do you? You just want to bang someone up. I saw you on the news this morning. You’re going to pin this other thing on Alan too, I suppose?’
Jo needed her to calm down, somehow earn her trust.
‘Some of my colleagues want to,’ said Jo.
A short pause. ‘And you?’
‘Someone was using Alan,’ she said. ‘And it might be the same person who killed Dylan Jones.’ She let it sink in. ‘That’s why I need you to tell me about the group Alan went to.’
‘Not this again. I told you, I’m bound by a code of professional ethics …’
‘Listen,’ said Jo. ‘It sounds like you’re going through a tough time. As it happens, so am I. If we can prove that Trent was a compromised party in all this, it clears him to an extent, and it clears you too. I’m not asking for you to point someone out in a line. All I want is a location where these people meet.’
‘I can’t …’
‘You did the right thing before,’ said Jo. ‘Do the right thing now. Do it for Alan, and do it for the next poor kid, before he gets taken and something worse happens.’
She’d started out trying to manipulate Phelps like a suspect in the interview room, but by the time she finished, Jo believed it herself, and she knew her desperation was obvious and she’d likely overplayed her hand. She expected to hear the line go dead.
Instead, Phelps sighed. ‘It’s a Quaker hall,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where, exactly.’
‘In Oxford?’
‘I really don’t know, I promise. When Alan told me, I didn’t pry. I was pleased that he was getting help. He really was, you know. He knew he had a problem, and he wanted to fix it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jo.
‘Look, this didn’t come from me, all right.’
‘No,’ said Jo.
She was already on her work phone as Phelps hung up, searching for Quaker halls in Oxford. There were two. One was on St Giles, a busy thoroughfare near the centre, but it had a subsidiary meeting hall, off the Iffley Road. The website said it was available for use by members of the public, for a donation.
She called the number listed for the secretary, lied about a creative writing group she ran and enquired about availability for Monday nights.
‘Sorry, we’re booked on Mondays from seven until nine. Some sort of residents’ group.’
Jo’s skin tingled. ‘What a shame.’
‘We have a Wednesday, if that works for you.’
‘It’s Mondays I’m interested in,’ said Jo. ‘Not to bot
her. You’ve been very helpful.’
Chapter 18
Jo arrived just after six p.m., fighting through the traffic of the town centre, out along the Iffley Road, then taking a left on Magdalen Road. Local shops shared the street with terraced housing, and if she hadn’t had directions, she’d have missed the Quaker hall. It was set back from the street slightly, an unassuming 1930s single-storey building with a hip roof. There was a well-tended front garden behind a small gate, and a flagged path which ran up the centre to a wooden porch. Ivy obscured most of the letters over the porch’s arch – ‘Friends Meeting House’. She drove past the first time, and with a little searching, discovered there was a back entrance too, serviced by a small car park on the next street over.
Two ingresses then. She figured the people she was waiting for would probably use the most discreet entrance, and reversed her car into a space opposite, twenty metres up the road.
Only an hour to wait, tops. Jo was used to much more gruelling stake-outs – the time-slowing mundanity, the sore back, the coffee cups and sandwich wrappers, the news bulletin repeats on the radio, every hour, the inane conversations with whatever colleague happened to be assigned the same watch. A good ninety per cent of them came to sweet fuck all, but like most things in life there were occasional bright spells.
And, sometimes, she’d learned, you even fell in love.
Though it was twelve years ago, she remembered the case well. A local dealer, Harim Marek, Tunisian by birth, was thought to be using his girlfriend’s grandmother’s council flat in Whitley to store product. They had a bug in the neighbouring vacant flat, drilled into the wall, but it wasn’t picking much up, so Jo was assigned to watch the eastern entrance to the block, noting the comings and goings of the suspect and his known associates. When her regular running partner, Hardeep, was called off to a family emergency, the passenger seat was filled with Benjamin Coombs, who ticked the tall, dark and handsome categories with an almost eerie precision. He’d brought a cafetière and portable kettle, plus croissants, and she’d joked that she hoped Hardeep’s family continued to suffer. Ben, to her relief, had laughed.
Before the coffee had even brewed, she’d known he was the one. She’d been on a few dates to that point, in pubs and bars around Reading, and hated how forced it seemed. But being in that car, sometimes for ten hours at a stretch, wasn’t forced at all. She felt giddy. And four or five days later, when Hardeep did return, his mother having passed away, Ben knew more about her life, her history, her childhood fears and adult dreams than any other person.
