The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  Hill was still visibly shaken. He was one of the several hundred people who′d been reached by Irving′s operation. He′d been contacted four days earlier regarding the potential danger to himself and his family, and had been particularly alert to any untoward occurrences in the vicinity of his property. It was this alertness that had been Desmond Roarke′s undoing, for the moment that Hill had heard something from the direction of the garage he′d called 911.

  ′We appreciate your coming down here,′ Irving told him. ′I understand that this has been a very traumatic experience for you and your family.′

  ′Un-fucking-real,′ Hill said. ′Was he the guy you were looking for? The one that the police warned me about last week?′

  ′We don′t know yet,′ Irving said. ′But your vigilance at least resulted in his arrest. We are obviously very grateful for your co-operation—′

  ′Hey, no problem. Whoever the fuck he was he was trying to break into my house. If you guys hadn′t come to see me last week and told me about this I doubt I′d have even been awake. We′re just really appreciative, you know? A little shook up, but thankful that it wasn′t one hell of a lot worse.′

  ′If it′s okay with you, Mr Hill, I wanted to check a few things with you. I could wait until tomorrow, but I always figure it′s best to get these formalities out of the way as early as possible so you can get back to your life.′

  Hill nodded.

  ′Anthony Grant,′ Irving said matter-of-factly.

  Hill frowned. ′What about him?′

  Irving′s expression visibly changed. ′You know a Mr Anthony Grant?′

  ′The lawyer? That Anthony Grant?′

  Irving looked at Gifford. Gifford looked like a hare in headlights.

  ′The lawyer, yes. You′re telling me you know him, Mr Hill?′

  ′What the fuck is this? Has that asshole got something to do with this? Did he have something to do with this guy trying to break into my house?′

  ′Well . . . well we thought not, Mr Hill, but now you′re saying you know him?′

  Hill started to get out of his chair, and then he sat down again. ′Jesus, man, what is this? Tell me what the fuck is going on here? How the fuck is he connected to this?′

  ′Calm down a minute, Mr Hill,′ Irving said, finding it very difficulty to remain calm himself. ′Tell me how you know Anthony Grant.′

  Hill crossed his arms on the table, and then leaned forward and rested his forehead against them. ′Fucking asshole,′ he said under his breath. ′Fucking asshole—′

  ′Mr Hill?′ Irving prompted.

  Hill looked up suddenly. There were tears in his eyes. ′Five years ago,′ he said, his voice an angry whisper. ′Five years ago he . . . my wife . . . shit, fuck! Asshole motherfucker!′

  ′He what, Mr Hill?′

  ′He had an affair with my wife, okay? Anthony fucking Grant had an affair with my wife. That′s what he did. Damned near ruined my fucking life!′

  Irving nodded at Gifford. Gifford nodded back, already on his way to the door.

  Irving waited until he was alone with Gregory Hill, and then he leaned forward, put his hand on Hill′s arm, and said, ′Tell me, Mr Hill. Tell me exactly what happened.′

  SIXTY-ONE

  It was the better part of an hour before Irving, Gifford and Anthony Grant were reunited at the Fourth Precinct. Grant was agitated, having been fetched from his home for the second time, and though he′d been told only that there were other questions that needed to be answered, that no, they could not wait until morning, he had been relatively compliant. The usual bluff and bravado that spouted from the mouths of lawyers was evident by its absence.

  At ten past three in the morning, Ray Irving sat down across from Anthony Grant and asked him a simple question that changed the man′s color and broke a sweat on his forehead.

  ′Tell me, Mr Grant . . . tell me about Laura Hill.′

  Grant, visibly anxious, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it once more. He looked at Irving, turned and looked at Vernon Gifford, and then asked if he needed a lawyer.

  Irving shook his head. ′We′re not charging you with anything, Mr Grant, because right now we have nothing to charge you with. However, if you don′t tell me the truth right now then we′re looking at obstruction at the very least—′

  Grant raised his hand. ′Tell me something,′ he said. ′Did Greg Hill have anything to do with what happened to my daughter?′

  ′Why on earth would you think such a thing, Mr Grant?′

  ′Because of what happened with Laura. Because I had an affair with Hill′s wife.′

  ′Why didn′t you mention this earlier, Mr Grant?′

  ′Is this the house that was broken into? What I′m supposed to have paid Desmond Roarke for?′

  ′Time to answer some questions, Mr Grant, not ask them. What happened between you and Laura Hill?′

  ′We had an affair.′

  ′How long ago?′

  ′Five years, a little more than five years ago.′

  ′And how long did this affair last?′

  ′Seven, eight months . . . it ended noisily.′

  ′Meaning?′

  ′Her husband found out and beat the shit out of her.′

  ′Your wife didn′t know?′

  ′No, she didn′t know.′ Grant closed his eyes, and for a moment looked utterly overwhelmed. ′Evelyn didn′t know, I′m sure of that. But I think Mia might have known.′

  ′Why do you think that?′

  ′Just my perception. She was a bright girl, very bright indeed, and one time I picked her up from school after I′d been with Laura Hill and Mia said I smelled of perfume. I said it must have been a client. She laughed, said that I was getting too close to my clients. It was just the way she said it, that was all.′

  ′Hence your failure to mention it earlier.′

  ′Mention what earlier? That I had an affair with someone? You didn′t ask me about that, and you didn′t mention Greg Hill. You didn′t tell me that that was the house where you caught Roarke—′

  ′I haven′t told you now, Mr Grant.′

  Grant smiled knowingly, and shook his head. ′You can′t pull this shit on me, Detective Irving. The mere fact that you have asked me about Laura Hill tells me that it was the Hill′s house that Roarke was trying to break into . . . otherwise where the fuck would her name have come from?′

  Irving nodded patiently. ′Okay,′ he said. ′Cards on the table for once. Desmond Roarke was arrested trying to break into the home of Gregory and Laura Hill. Are you going to tell me that you know nothing about this?′

  ′Yes, Detective, I am. I know nothing about this. You think I set Roarke up to break into that house?′

  ′It′s a possibility, yes.′

  ′What on earth for?′

  ′Because you believed that Hill might have had something to do with the death of your daughter . . . because you thought there might be some evidence in the house.′

  ′Jesus Christ, that′s stretching it a bit. You think Greg Hill killed Mia? For revenge you mean, to get back at me for sleeping with his wife? Well, if that′s the case then why the hell did he wait five years?′

  ′Maybe he didn′t mean to kill her? Maybe he intended to assault her sexually and he killed her by mistake—′

  Irving watched as Grant clenched and unclenched his fists, as he breathed deeply - in and out, in and out, trying to do all he could to center himself, to keep himself in check, to withhold his rage and hatred.

  ′If Greg Hill . . .′ Grant paused, opened his eyes, looked back at Irving.

  ′You said that Greg Hill beat his wife.′

  ′Yes, he beat the shit out of her repeatedly, Detective. He beat her so many times she could barely speak for a fortnight.′

  ′And she reported this?′

  Grant laughed. ′Report it? Report it to whom?′

  ′To us. To the police.′

  ′Did she, hell! No, she did not report it. W
hat the fuck do you think that would have done, eh? You think that would have solved the problem? The guy was insane with rage. He was always a jealous bastard, but when he found out that she was having an affair he threatened to kill her, threatened to kill me—

  ′You′re serious?′

  ′Of course I′m serious. You don′t think I′m making this up?′

  ′So if he beat her, and he threatened to kill her, and he threatened to kill you as well . . . does it not then seem possible that he was capable of killing your daughter, even if it was unintentional?′

  Grant didn′t reply. He looked away toward the door, and when he turned back to Irving there were tears in his eyes. ′Possible?′ Grant shook his head. ′I don′t know anymore what is and isn′t possible, Detective. I′ve lost my only child. My wife is devastated, my marriage is coming apart at the seams. Now, as if this wasn′t enough, the fact that I had an affair with someone five years ago is going to be dredged up again—′

  ′And you′re concerned that your wife will find out about it?′

  Grant used the cuff of his shirt to wipe his eyes. ′I think she has more than enough to deal with already, don′t you?′

  By four Irving was coming apart himself. He sat at his desk in the incident room, Hill and Anthony Grant having returned to their respective homes, both of them cautioned that they were to remain within the city, that there would be further questions.

  ′In essence,′ he told Vernon Gifford, ′we have circumstantial evidence and hearsay. There′s nothing to prove that Grant did or didn′t contact Roarke. Roarke never spoke to him directly, and voices . . . well, what someone said on the telephone is about as inadmissible as it comes as far as evidence is concerned. The fact that Hill beat his wife is simply hearsay from Grant. We can speak to Laura Hill tomorrow, but . . .′ Irving shook his head. ′Who the fuck knows, eh? Old wounds have been opened up. She might talk, she might not. If her husband is the crazy fuck that Grant says he is then she might be too scared to say a thing.′

  ′You figure him for the Grant girl′s killing?′

  ′I don′t,′ Irving said. ′I figure him for being an asshole, but from what I′ve seen of him he seems . . .′ Irving paused. ′I′ve got Jeff Turner over there. If there′s something to find he′ll find it. If Hill did the Grant girl then he did all of them, right? We′re holding onto the certainty that this is the work of one man. All of them, right from Mia Grant to the one we don′t even have a name for.′ Irving indicated the cork boards ahead of him. ′You think someone like Gregory Hill would be capable of all of this?′

  Gifford was shaking his head. ′I don′t see it,′ he said. ′I mean, shit, I′ve been wrong before but I don′t see it on this one.′

  ′Which means that the whole thing is a set-up. The whole thing has been rigged by our anniversary killer . . . but for what purpose?′

  ′Our guy calls Roarke. He pretends he′s Anthony Grant. Roarke hasn′t spoken to the guy for four years, he′s not going to remember his voice. He′s gonna take the guy′s word for it, especially when there′s money involved. So the killer tells Roarke to break into Hill′s house.′ Gifford paused for a moment. ′If that′s what happened, then the killer must have known that we had the patrols out alerting these families . . .′

  ′That wasn′t difficult to figure after Ellmann′s statement on the TV.′

  ′Hell, Vernon, he warned us didn′t he? He sent us a letter saying he was gonna do six—′

  ′And you think he′s gone out and killed another six people? You think this was just a diversion?′

  ′I fucking hope not, Vernon, but like I said before, he seems to have no difficulty keeping his word.′

  ′Gonna be the thirteenth for a good while yet,′ Gifford said, glancing at the clock above the door.

  ′You should go,′ Irving said. ′Get a few hours if you can.′

  ′And leave you with this? No, I′m not bailing out until we′ve seen the day through to the end.′

  ′Doesn′t mean anything,′ Irving said. ′He killed one girl in an apartment on Montgomery Street and we didn′t find her for twelve days.′

  ′Don′t matter,′ Gifford said. ′You′re staying then I′m staying.′

  Irving got up and walked to the window. Early mornings, late nights, all of them blurring seamlessly one into another, and all because of one man. Was that man Gregory Hill? Irving doubted it, but nevertheless he had the Hill family securely ensconced in two upstairs rooms while Turner and his people went through the house with a fine-toothed comb, ostensibly to determine whether there was any further evidence to in-criminate Desmond Roarke on his B&E, but in truth to find out whether there was more they needed to know about Gregory Hill.

  And that anonymous caller? The one who pretended to be Anthony Grant and who paid Roarke to find something in the Hill house? That could very well have been Grant′s PI, this Karl Roberts character. Acting a little beyond the parameters of the law, a little further than the limits of his brief. It had been known. But as of that moment Irving possessed neither the mental energy nor the resources to pursue the man. He would deal with it once the night was over, once they knew if the attempted break-in at the Hill house was all they′d have to deal with tonight . . . or if there was something else far worse awaiting them.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Had Vernon Gifford acquiesced to Ray Irving′s suggestion that he go home, he would have been called back before he′d even reached his apartment.

  At four fifty-eight a.m., early morning of Monday, November 13th, a call came in to the Second Precinct. At first the operator had difficulty understanding the caller, for he said the same hurried sequence of words over and over again, and after asking the caller to repeat the message slowly, she finally determined that he was saying ′Fourteen forty-eight, East 17th. Tell Ray Irving once I started, I just couldn′t stop. It went so fast . . .′

  Once the caller had established that his message had been understood, he hung up. The call would ultimately be traced back to a phone booth on East 17th, but by the time Irving received word, by the time black-and-whites had been dispatched, by the time he and Vernon Gifford had established that there was no response from the house at fourteen forty-eight, East 17th Street, whoever might have made that call had long since gone. The phone booth would be cordoned, photographed, even the coinbox carefully emptied, and each of the thirty-one coins within would be printed. It would give up nothing.

  ′Allen,′ Gifford told Irving, as they stood outside that house. ′Howard and Jean Allen.′

  There was nothing but silence. The flashing light-bars reflected in the windows of the property lent the scene an eerie carnival atmosphere.

  Nothing so scary as a clown after dark, Irving thought, remembering how James Wolfe′s painted face had looked up at him from a hole in the ground.

  It was five thirty-six. Farraday had been alerted, had been apprized of the Anthony Grant/Gregory Hill situation, had authorized any action that Irving felt necessary.

  ′Get the fuck into that house,′ he′d said. ′If it turns out there′s no-one there we′ll repair whatever damage is done . . . just get in there and tell me we don′t have another six dead people.′

  Irving was still for a moment, and then he looked back at Gifford. He knew there was something else, something he really didn′t want to hear.

  Gifford looked away, didn′t want to face Irving. ′Four kids,′ he said, his voice restrained.

  Irving lowered his head, his heart a tight knot in his chest. ′No,′ he said, solely to himself, but Gifford was nodding. Irving had received the message from dispatch, and he knew exactly what it meant. Once I started, I just couldn′t stop. It went so fast.

  ′Four kids,′ Gifford repeated, and then waved over the two patrol officers who had just emerged from the rear of the lot.

  ′All locked up,′ the first one said. ′Looks like the back door is alarmed, but it′s a hell of a lot less work to get through there than the front.′
r />   ′No response on the phone?′ Irving asked.

  ′Nothing sir,′ the officer replied. ′We′ve had the phone ringing for a good five or ten minutes.′

  ′We′ll go in through the back,′ Irving said.

  The patrol officers led the way, the detectives following, and two further officers called to assist from a second squad car.

  Irving took a leather glove from his overcoat pocket, slipped it on, and then selected a fist-sized stone from the yard at the rear of the house. Before he punched a hole through the small pane of glass nearest the lock he looked up at Gifford.

  ′Do it,′ Gifford said. ′Let′s get it over with.′

  The pane went through with the first strike, and even as Irving opened the door, the alarm strangely silent, the house cold and dark within, he had a premonition and a sense of foreboding that he all too easily recognized.

  He turned to Gifford before he′d even crossed the threshold.

  ′Call Jeff Turner,′ he said quietly. ′Call him and tell him I′m gonna need him.′

  Gifford went back to the nearest squad car and put a call through to dispatch. While he waited he looked up at the rear of the property, noticed the severed alarm wiring beneath the shadow of the gutter. Whatever sense of optimism he might have felt - that it was a hoax call, that they were going to find nothing but an empty building - rapidly evaporated.

  Irving, meanwhile, stood in the cool silence of the Allens′ kitchen. It was a kitchen not unlike so many others in a thousand homes across the city. The refrigerator door was peppered with magnets, one of them a crude smiley-face in black and yellow. A child had made it, no doubt, more than likely one of the Allen kids. A crude splotch of color with legs and a barely recognizable plumed head adorned another sheet of yellow construction paper that had been pinned to the wall. Beneath the picture was the word turkey, a mixture of lower and upper case letters, the final y sliding off the corner of the page. A Thanksgiving painting from pre-school activities.

  The tight knot that was Irving′s heart now felt like a cold fist.