Room 15: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Charles Harris

  Room 15

  Charles Harris

  Copyright © Charles Harris

  The right of Charles Harris to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in

  accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in

  writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the

  terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living

  or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  978-1-913419-68-4

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgments

  A note from the publisher

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  You will also enjoy:

  To Jan, Eve and Charlie

  One need not be a chamber – to be haunted –

  One need not be a house –

  Emily Dickinson

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  1

  February 2011

  Not until you sit in the dock yourself do you realise how alone and powerless you are. I gaze down rather as a climber looks down at a landscape or an audience in the gallery looks at a stage, and try not to show how I feel. Below, I see the barristers with their assistants, the solicitors behind them, the jury in its box, the public on the other side and, of course, the judge. Everyone is so busy, so sure of themselves – all of them knowing what they’ll be doing tonight, next week, next year. While up here I sit with just police officers for company, unable to imagine anything beyond the next few days or to do anything to save myself.

  Only at the start was I asked to speak, when the clerk read out the charges – four counts of murder, one of attempted murder and grievous bodily harm. I replied ‘Not guilty’ to each, but my voice sounded weak. My own voice undermined me. Since then, for the past two and a half weeks, I have remained silent. For seventeen painful days and sleepless nights.

  But finally, it’s my time. As I stand and leave the dock to cross the court, I try to appear certain. As if I’m sure. As if there isn’t a part of me that wishes my barrister, Stone, had stood his ground and managed to persuade me not to speak. The prosecution barrister sits back behind his pile of box files, eyes half closed, waiting for a fumbled answer he can use against me. I know the risks only too well. All it takes is a misunderstanding or a slip of the tongue. And then, to my surprise, as I enter the witness box, the door to the public gallery opens and my wife comes into the court for the first time since the start of the trial. Soberly dressed in a dark work suit, she finds one last seat at the back and takes her place. I try to smile up at her, to show how much stronger I feel, knowing she’s there, but she avoids eye contact.

  The air is dry and oppressive – I don’t like these modernised windowless courtrooms, shut off from the outside world – and the place is quieter than I’ve known it this last fortnight. I feel I’ve walked into a trap.

  I glance at the jury. All they need, to find me not guilty, is a reasonable doubt. For two weeks I’ve been watching them, trying to guess if any might have any doubts. There’s a young woman in a mauve hijab and an older man who’ve both remained impassive throughout, while behind them a middle-aged black woman, who wears a succession of yellow T-shirts, listens to everything with her mouth open. Is it good or bad if a jury member looks shocked? Will I have more of a chance with the red-headed woman who makes careful notes, or the attentive young Indian to her right who keeps shaking his head?

  Stone sips a glass of water, pushes himself slowly to his feet. He’s a tousle-haired public school man with an estuary accent, who talks as if he learned English from a slightly ageing dictionary of clichés. His favourite expressions are ‘in the ballpark’, ‘giving it some welly’ and ‘make a good fist of it’; and he made a show of relaxed professionalism in our pre-trial meetings, but as the trial progressed, his ease of manner started to disappear and that frightened me.

  Yesterday afternoon, downstairs in the grubby over-lit custody-area meeting room, we had another bad row over whether I should take the stand. I said I had to tell my story. He thought I shouldn’t. That I’d come over badly – too cold and unemotional. I tried to argue. I know people sometimes see me as cold and professional. I can seem passionless to others, withdrawn, even, but it’s the job. Inside I’m not. I can be as emotional as anyone, and in any case I’m no stranger to the witness box. But, he said, not as a defendant.

  My solicitor and the police rep agreed with him but I refused to give in, told them I could sack them all if I wanted and represent myself. Then, as we were about to go back into court, Stone unexpectedly backed down. I could take the stand, he said, even though he still thought I was wrong.

  Now, as I wait, he checks his notes, turns half to me, half to the jury, and says in an even voice, ‘DI Blackleigh, tell us what you first realised on the evening of Saturday, 13 February 2010.’

  ‘I realised it was snowing.’ My words are chosen carefully. Words I’ve run and re-run in my head, lying in my remand cell, searching for tripwires, dangerous references, phrases the jury might misunderstand. Trying to look calm, I wait for his next question.

  ‘Snowing?’ Stone raises his eyebrows, although of course he knows this already. ‘And why was that of significance to you?’

  ‘Because I thought it was summer. I thought it was Sunday, 10 August 2008.’ Does this sound too slow, too thoughtful? I make a mental note to show that I am capable of strong feeling, despite everything the jury’s hea
rd.

  Stone glances down at his papers. I sense his own caution. He looks up at me again. ‘And why did you think that?’

  And now we both know there’s no turning back.

  2

  The Previous Year Saturday, 13 February 2010, 9pm

  Something feels terribly wrong. It’s starting to snow, but it’s August. I look up at the flakes swirling under the street lamps and as I do, a car horn blares in my ear. Annoyed, I turn towards it and find I’m standing in the middle of a road, which is swaying slightly under my feet, but I’m not drunk, of that I’m sure. The driver shouts something that I don’t catch and then swears loudly as he accelerates past.

  What am I doing here? The night is dark and desperately cold – colder than I’ve ever known in summer before – and, banging my hands together to try to get them warm, I set out to continue walking the way I was going. But which way was that? Dimly lit council flats rise on either side. In one direction stands a darkened church, its black spire jabbing up at the sky. I don’t remember it. In the other there’s an unlit car showroom, the ghosts of unsold cars faint behind the glass. To my growing horror, I don’t recognise that either.

  Two men have seen what happened and cross over. One reaches out, takes my arm and helps me onto the pavement.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ he asks.

  Embarrassed, I mutter something about how they shouldn’t have bothered. The second man peers into my face.

  ‘Too many bevvies? You want to sit down? Take the weight off?’

  ‘No, fine, I’m fine,’ I say. Then I realise, with a shock, that he’s reaching his hand into my fleece pocket. I knock his hand aside, but again he tries to pull out my wallet. I shove him and he dances away laughing.

  ‘Piss-artist,’ he calls.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ I say and try to grab the other one but he steps back too, waving his hands as if nothing was going on. I go to chase after them – but my leg hurts and the two men have a head start and soon disappear into a side street.

  I stop, breathing heavily, and lean on a wall for a moment, to get my bearings, feeling foolish and confused. The snow is settling on the wall and on the pavement, a faint glimmering of white. My neck hurts, so I rub it and watch the flakes drift down to land, one on another – then I look at my hand.

  It’s wet with blood.

  3

  I try not to panic, to breathe slowly. What’s happening to me? Have I been in a car crash? A fight? Squinting at my reflection in a puddle, I see I’m bleeding from the left side of my neck and from my forehead, but as far as I can tell there’s no serious damage.

  I ease myself painfully down onto the pavement. A woman laughs from somewhere in the block of council flats nearby and the strange frightening summer snow continues, icy flakes abseiling through the lamplight. I watch the whirling dots glimmer briefly on my fleece and then die. The fleece itself is quality – Patagonia, dark blue with trimmings – though badly scuffed – but it can’t be mine. It’s not my style. Nor the expensive designer jeans and Timberland cross-trainers either. Where are my usual clothes? M&S suit and anorak?

  Legs sprawled out on the icy ground, I wipe my hand on the damp pavement. Clean off the blood as best I can, thanking God there’s no one around to see me sitting here like a beggar. I’m normally a calm person in most situations and I believe in going by the rules, finding a process to follow. No matter what the problem is, there is surely a process. So, I try to regain my composure by methodically searching the pockets of this unfamiliar fleece. First, I find an expensive wallet I don’t recognise. Next I pull out an Audi car fob and a bunch of house keys I’ve never seen before, along with a BlackBerry that’s also not mine. Now I’m shitting myself. Have I stolen them? In the other pocket I find another expensive mobile. To my surprise, both phones have been switched off.

  My fingers are starting to go numb with the cold, but I manage to open the wallet and inside, to my relief, I find my own warrant card and driving licence. Though I’m more startled to see a large wad of cash – I generally count it a good day if I have as much as two twenties in my pocket. Placing the wallet and keys on the pavement beside me, I turn on the phones. Immediately, the BlackBerry fills up. It has my work numbers and there are a hundred new messages from the station, asking what I’m doing.

  I switch to the other mobile and scroll through the contacts list. These are mine too, my personal ones, but then I notice: all the messages on this one have been deleted. The recent call list only shows two calls – both this evening, both to the same number. I look up the number in the contacts list but it’s not there. Not in the work phone either. I try ringing and an automatic voice from Vodafone tells me that the other person is not available and doesn’t have voicemail.

  The wind gusts around me, blowing thin flakes into my face. I’m hungry. My body is stiffening. I really ought to move but it feels less frightening to stay here on the ground. I check my watch – half past nine. Should I go home? Should I go to hospital? But I’m not dying. I’ve just forgotten a few things. I can remember others: my name, my job. I remember Laura. It would be good to go home to her – to my warm bed and my warm wife.

  But when I try to remember what I’m doing here, nothing comes. It’s like this is a test and I’m failing it. I don’t know what’s going on and am starting to feel very frightened indeed.

  But enough is enough. Maybe if I force myself to move, it will trigger something. So I push everything back into the pockets of the fleece and pull up to standing. Once more I try again to remember, to go back to the moment before I found myself in this street. Where was I going? Where was I coming from? As an experiment, I start in the direction of the darkened church. But after just a dozen steps, I lose heart. It feels wrong. I turn towards the closed car showroom. But that’s wrong too. This is useless. In desperation, I step off the pavement to get a clearer sighting.

  As I do, a flashing blue light floats down the street towards me through the falling snow. I hesitate, unsure how to deal with this. The police car eases to a halt and a sergeant stares up at me. He’s black, middle-aged and rounded at the corners.

  ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘You’re needed.’

  4

  There’s this nightmare – I used to have it when I was very young – the shape behind the door. I don’t remember what I’m doing here tonight, but I can remember that nightmare, though I wish I couldn’t. It sounds like nothing, put into words. Each night, I’d lie awake, watching the door, scared to fall asleep. When I did, the nightmare would come. A faceless shape, more animal than human. It stood in the dark behind the bedroom door, preparing to leap on me and smother my face. I’d wake in a panic, fighting for breath. Even now, recalling it unnerves me. I must have had that nightmare countless times and each time my mother would rush to my room. This was while she was still healthy.

  She was small yet fiercely intense, as if anything bad that happened to me was somehow her fault, even my dreams. She’d turn on my bedside light and put her arms round me as I lay, rasping, unable to speak, unable to explain. Her body was soft in her towelling dressing gown, she smelled of the apple-blossom perfume she always wore, and she’d talk about anything. She’d make up hopeful stories about monsters who turned out to be friendly. She’d sing songs she used to sing when she was a child. And we’d tell each other what we’d done the day before and what we’d planned to do the day after. She’d always try to plan a treat, a visit to the zoo, say, or a new kind of cake she’d buy for me. Paul never came. (I’ve always called him Paul. I forget when I stopped calling him Dad.) He stayed in their bedroom and left me to her. They agreed on that at least.

  Much later, when it was just the two of us, Paul’s way of showing his paternal love was very different – revolving mostly around church and pub. The church visits were supposed to be good for both our souls, while the pub would be more for him than for me. Usually lager, sometimes a single malt. It loosened his tongue and allowed him to temporarily forget his criticisms of me
, myriad though they were. Those were our best moments together. Luckily for him, the police cared less about weight and fitness than they have since I joined, and by the time they did, he’d resigned. Me, I’m lucky that I’ve never drunk as much as him and I’ve always worked out. My father wouldn’t know a Swiss ball from a kettlebell.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking about that nightmare now, as the sergeant drives me into the unknown. But it’s like there’s a splinter of memory, sometimes visible, sometimes slipping just out of reach. A shape. A sense of running somewhere. The sound of breaking glass, a glint of August sunshine, smell of spilled wine. A party. I try to catch these fragments but they’re gone again. It’s a nightmare in itself. Am I having a stroke? Is there a cancer in my brain?

  I hold down the panic and think through what I can remember. I remember my childhood. I remember school – I was always better at football and boxing than reading Shakespeare and taking exams. But I tried hard. I took my test reports home to my mother, who would stick them to the fridge and gloat over the marks for every test that I scraped through as if I’d won a Nobel prize. Paul knew better but for once had the sense to keep his mouth shut and let her bask in my reflected dishonour.