Room 15: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Charles Harris

  Gerry is saying, ‘If that’s Becks and work–’

  ‘It’s Laura,’ I say.

  And Becks is saying, ‘Boss?’

  So I say to my phone, ‘Okay, what did your cousin want? Did she find a fourth for bridge?’

  Gerry doesn’t believe me for one minute and he’s threatening to have me castrated and anally tortured.

  Becks says, ‘Darjus Javtokas isn’t the murderer.’ I go cold. ‘I’m at the station on the computer. Javtokas had a cast-iron alibi for when Amy Matthews was killed.’

  I try to get this straight in my head. ‘Go on. How do you know?’

  ‘He was here. He was here in the fucking station, wasn’t he. Being interrogated at the time of the murder. At the time Amy Matthews was being pumped with bullets, Darjus Javtokas was sitting in an interview room.’

  So Darjus Javtokas is innocent of Amy Matthews’ death and he’s dead thanks to me. I had him in my hands and I couldn’t save him. Even if he turns out to be working with the murderer, he’s dead and I let it happen.

  Becks gives me the name of the detective sergeant questioning him, but I’ve already guessed it: it’s the DS who’s long been in Gerry Gardner’s closest circle, the same one who ran the raid on the Kleizas’ office. Who I saw outside the Aviva Hotel after Amy Matthews was killed. Dave Haskins.

  Gerry glances across at me as he accelerates past a truck dumping grit on the roads. Before I ring off, I say to Becks, ‘Tell her I’d join the game myself, but not this afternoon. She should keep asking around.’

  And I wonder which empty office Becks has found to make this call from and how he must feel.

  Gerry stops in a dark narrow street by a railway bridge and the Honda parks behind. Thick snow sits on the bridge, partially melting onto the roadway beneath. He nods towards a car a few metres ahead.

  ‘You should talk to your father. Cut him some slack,’ Gerry says. And more platitudes of that sort.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s the only father you’ve got.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  He pushes his lips tight. ‘Don’t talk about your father that way. He won’t be alive forever.’ Gerry’s speaking to me like I’m still a child.

  I climb carefully out of the Volvo and walk over, avoiding the patches of soiled ice. There, filling the front seat of his Renault, is my father, stubbing out a fag as he opens the window.

  ‘Christ, Ross. Get yourself fixed.’

  ‘I’m doing that.’

  Paul looks me over. ‘Then hurry up about it. You look like hell.’ He gives a wheezing cough. ‘And couldn’t you have had the sense to keep Becks out of things? He’s a good kid. He’d shoot the commissioner and fuck his wife if you told him to, and he still believes in you, for some reason, though he thinks his career’s screwed and he’s ready to resign before he’s sacked.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to him?’

  ‘He’s come to me for advice about you in the past. When I heard the latest from Gerry, I called the kid to tell him it’s not his fault, and not to do anything stupid. You might try doing the same sometime. Or don’t other people matter to you anymore?’

  Behind, Gerry motions to the DC to wait in the Honda, then joins us in the darkness under the bridge. I turn to him furiously. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Darjus Javtokas had an alibi?’

  He lights a Lambert and Butler. ‘Javtokas had an alibi?’

  ‘Yes. Being interviewed at the station last night by Dave Haskins. Your own errand boy.’

  Gerry glances at Paul, then takes out his mobile and dials. He leans on the roof of the Renault. ‘Dave,’ he says, ‘what’s going on?’

  It sounds from the muffled response like Haskins has been catching up on his sleep. Gerry asks him straight up what he was doing last night between eight and ten o’clock. He grunts and asks three more questions, gets three answers and rings off.

  ‘Yes, Dave was interviewing Javtokas at nine last night.’

  ‘And you didn’t know?’

  ‘And I didn’t know. I don’t get told everything my staff do. And the fact that he released Javtokas suggests there was nothing to tell. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Dave Haskins?’ My father clears his throat noisily. ‘Wasn’t he with us in Ealing, Gerry? Not the most ambitious cop I’ve ever known, and always looked a mess, but dependable.’

  I turn to Gerry. ‘Why was he questioning Javtokas last night?’

  ‘Because you asked us to.’

  I take a moment to digest this. ‘Why did I ask you to?’

  ‘He was on a list you sent round – people who might have had connections with the Kleizas. But he was clean. Maybe if you got your fucking memory back, it would help.’

  ‘So the killer’s still free.’

  ‘That’s not your problem, Ross. Go home.’

  In the shadows, a lump of snow falls from the bridge.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Gerry, someone wanted me dead.’

  ‘That was Javtokas and you’ve managed to finish him off.’

  That’s a low blow but I deserve it. ‘Who told him to do it?’

  ‘Don’t have the slightest idea, and you know what? I’m prepared to wait to find out. Maybe you pissed him off like you’ve pissed me off.’

  I thump a grimy lamp post with my hand. ‘And the bent cop?’

  ‘If there is one. So far, I’d like to point out, Javtokas is the only person who’s actually tried to attack you, although many of us have felt sorely tempted. But after Yussef has driven you home, you’ll stay there. And Yussef will be with you in case there’s any trouble.’

  ‘Trouble from whom? The bent cop or from me?’

  ‘You don’t get a choice, Ross. As of now, you’re suspended. In the meantime, if it doesn’t offend you, we’ll go through the correct procedures. I’ve put a call in to the Directorate of Professional Standards. They will look into your allegations of corruption and this death in custody. That’s their job. Winstanley is dealing with the murder of Amy Matthews. That’s her job. We’ll manage without you somehow. You’ll be interviewed about all this tomorrow.’ Gerry draws furiously on his cigarette and holds his hand out for my warrant card.

  Containing myself, my hand trembling with anger, I give it to him. Gerry stares at the card, as if he doesn’t trust me not to have switched it for a fake, and then slides it into the inside pocket of his coat.

  From his driving seat, Paul says, ‘Get in. We should talk. Father to son.’

  I look down at him wearily. ‘Not now.’

  Paul rests his chin on his chest and mutters something about not being a fucking fool. I wonder what he cares about more: my safety or the good name of the last Blackleigh left in the police.

  ‘We will talk,’ I say, relenting slightly. ‘I promise. I promise we’ll talk, but not now, okay? Not now.’

  ‘Tell me when you’re ready. Tell me when you need my help sorting yourself out.’ And he turns the ignition of the Renault.

  ‘Thank you for the offer.’

  ‘It’s always open,’ he says. ‘There’s always hope. You know I’m there for you.’

  Despite myself, I feel he means it. There are certain emotions that my father has never been able to express. Love is one of them.

  He prods the car into gear and Gerry calls to him to stay, but Paul waves him away, saying, ‘Listen to the boy. It’s not time.’

  38

  The phone rang. He heard the voice of Amy Matthews…

  On the radio they were forecasting snow…

  He left, driving fast into town, and dialled her again on his mobile. She didn’t answer…

  A pizza bike almost slammed into his car, and he swerved but kept going, dialled again.

  As the afternoon grows mistier, the DC called Yussef is taking me home. We’re in the Hyde, passing shuttered warehouses and snowed-in shopping malls. He turns towards Kingsbury and I call Laura. Her voicemail’s on, so I tell her I’ll be there half an hour before I promised. I try to think what else to say,
but then I tap the red button.

  I feel my head is being torn apart. Yussef tries talking to me, but it’s as if his voice is on mute. I see his mouth moving, but there’s no meaning. I stare at the white nothing rushing up ahead of me and see…

  He dialled again, and she didn’t answer…

  He ran into Lonely’s, down the concrete ramp, the place still half empty, the barman bringing in a case of bottles. Tina was drinking with a punter, a young man with a shiny forehead; they were sharing a bottle of red, laughing.

  She saw him come in, and she shook her head.

  He was shouting.

  He was shouting at Crystal.

  In her flat, shaking her; angry, frustrated. She stared up at him. Mouth open in shock. Not getting it. Not the brightest torch in the glovebox. Lost for words. There was something he needed to know. Something Crystal had to tell him.

  I ask the DC to stop, to pull over to the side of the road, now. I’m sitting in the Honda shivering with the cold and staring at the grey-white street ahead, motionless.

  Sprinting up the stairs in the Aviva Hotel. Knocking into the walls in his rush. Desperate. Tripping on a loose stair rod, almost going sprawling, grabbing the handrail to save himself. Hammering on the door of each occupied room. Room by room.

  Yussef asks something, but I get out as fast as I can, wincing at the whiteness, taking a lungful of air, freezing splinters of air. I stare at the low line of suburban shops, the straight wide road, the straggly trees, thin scratches against the snow, and…

  And he banged on the last door and it opened and there she was. Amy Matthews was saying something he couldn’t make out. Pointing and walking backwards. Lights were off, only a single lamp on a table. She wore her old coat and thick moon boots and she was half laughing, half crying. Her spiky hair nodding. Her eyes fearful and excited at the same time.

  He turned and there was the shape of a man in the dark behind the door. Turned, grabbed. The lamp smashed on the floor. Kicking, twisting. Arms and fists. And the pain very real, against his skull, on his legs…

  There was a gun. They were fighting over it. Him and the man in the dark. He could feel his heart hammering and the fear of it. He took blows hard to the face, blinding. Then he lost balance and the gun went off, knocks him back with a crash into the side of the door. A jabbing sharpness. Blood on his neck, wet and hot and horrifying.

  The next shot hit the wall next to Amy and she gasped in shock.

  The gun fired again, in front of him, five more rounds. Five in quick succession, terrifying. His ears rang with the sound of them…

  Amy was flung back into the corner by the force of the rounds as they hit her. Like she was a piece of furniture, stuffing exploding, kicked and broken. And then something cracked him on the top of his head, massive and forceful, and it all turned to nothing.

  I lean with both hands against the roof of the car. Yussef gets out and watches me in concern. Gradually my body stops shaking and I’m able to look around once more. We’ve stopped in one of the long straight roads close to home, filled with high-street chains and charity shops, extending into the distance. The pubs and burger bars are open, but everything else is shuttered, and a small number of people, young and old, are skidding around on the ice in search of whatever people search for on a winter’s Sunday afternoon.

  I’ve seen it. I was there. The man behind the door in the darkness. The man who R fought when Amy Matthews died.

  I look up and down the street. Cars and people. Is he among them? Tracking me? Waiting for his next chance?

  I tell Yussef it’s okay, and we drive off again. I turn round to see if we’re being followed, but it’s difficult to tell.

  39

  It’s shortly after four when Yussef finds a place to park opposite my house, but there’s a car I don’t recognise in the drive.

  As we walk across, I ask him if he has a gun, and he says, ‘No, sir. DCI Gardner said it wasn’t necessary.’

  As he says this, a light comes on in the front room and I see Laura walk in. She seems nervous, edgy, and she’s talking to someone out of sight, someone she seems wary of. While we watch, she turns off the light and leaves.

  After a moment to check she’s not coming back, I approach the car in the driveway. It’s a dark blue Urban Cruiser and close up I can see a pair of dark glasses on the dashboard. Three gangsta rap CDs have been tossed onto the passenger seat and a single line of footprints leads through the thick snow to the house.

  Followed by Yussef, who seems as unnerved by this as me, I move up to the front door, but can hear nothing from inside, so I unlock it as quietly as I can. There’s the hallway like last night – the daffodils in the vase, the junk mail, the polished wood. These must have been familiar to R, but they’re foreign to me. Indeed, the more I learn about him, the more distant he seems.

  Yussef joins me in the hall and I close the door softly behind us. From the kitchen, I can hear Laura talking, the wife I thought I still had, and now there comes a second voice. Dry and clipped. I know who it is. I tell Yussef it’s okay and he nods seriously, and goes to stand guard outside, as Gerry ordered him.

  In the kitchen I find them: Laura is sitting at the breakfast bar, mug of coffee in her hands, dressed in a smart tight blouse and jeans, a silver bracelet shining brightly against her skin. I love her cool. Smart and knowing, not flashy, not ostentatious.

  On a kitchen stool next to the door sits Isobel.

  ‘Hello, Isobel,’ I say.

  ‘Hello, Ross,’ she replies, politely.

  ‘How’s things?’

  She gives a thin smile as if that’s an answer. Then she says, ‘Gerry told me.’

  Gerry’s right hand. A policeman’s wife. He always said she was the best person he ever caught. Isobel would do anything for him. She’s tough, tough as tanned hide. Tight hair curls round her head in that mousy colour that always looks like it might turn ginger but never has. She puts her head to one side like a bird and watches me as I walk to the sink.

  I pour myself a glass of water and I feel I’m about five separate people, desynchronised. Even my arms and legs are on satnav – they work, like my voice, incoherently, unwillingly.

  ‘Gerry told me you’ve lost your memory. Is it true?’

  Laura’s suddenly fascinated by her mug of coffee.

  I fill the kettle. ‘I can remember some things.’

  ‘Amnesia,’ Isobel says with a certain undertone.

  I nod and drink the water.

  ‘Laura needed a shoulder to lean on, so I came round as quick as I could.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, in all this weather.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve got this, Ross.’ She eyes me, putting her head on one side again. ‘I hope you sort yourself out soon. I hope you get some good help.’

  ‘I’m sorting it. But it’s not easy.’

  ‘Nothing changes.’ Laura is still not making eye contact with me. Instead, she turns to Isobel.

  ‘I can stay, Laura,’ Isobel says, but Laura shakes her head with a frosty smile. She doesn’t seem to want to see her any more than I do.

  ‘I’m fine, Izzie.’

  Isobel slides off the stool, her face tight, her whole body wound up. She points a finger. ‘It’s the same Ross.’

  I shake my head firmly. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know who the same Ross is, but I’m not him.’ When I was about thirteen, fourteen, I used to fancy her. She and Gerry seemed such a sexy couple, and she was slim and cheeky. I wanted to be him, chasing villains and going back home to find her in my bed.

  She gazes back at me like she always did, like she always knows more than I do. ‘Convenient.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But she ignores my question and picks up her handbag. She’s starting to make me feel annoyed.

  Laura says, ‘Don’t do that, Izzie. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Isobel gazes at me. ‘So you’re Ross reset back a year and a half, like someone waved a magic wand
?’

  I do my best to stay polite. ‘That’s about the thing of it.’

  She regards the darkening clouds massing beyond the kitchen window and says it looks like the snow is going to get heavy again. I ask if she’s okay driving in it.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  I take her mug off her. ‘Go.’

  Laura nods. ‘Go, Isobel. We don’t need your help.’

  ‘No matter what’s happened,’ Isobel says, ‘you know you can always call.’

  ‘Go, Isobel,’ I say.

  For a fleeting second, I exchange glances with Laura; we both know she hates being fussed over, and there’s a moment of connection between us, before the line is cut again.

  I see Isobel to the front door and while she puts on her short thick coat, I decide to come straight out with it.

  ‘Is everything all right between you and Gerry?’

  She stares at me, and I repeat my question.

  ‘Fuck you, Ross.’ She looks less aloof, tired under the eyes. ‘Don’t play games. And don’t play games with Laura. She hurts too easy.’

  I say I’m not playing games, but Isobel doesn’t understand.

  Once Isobel has finally driven off into the gloom, I check up and down the street and there appear to be no new tracks aside from hers. Yussef stands outside, stamping his feet on the steps to warm them. I tell him he can come inside, but he says he prefers the cold.

  ‘No Prius?’ says Laura as I return. She sounds flat and unsurprised. Another promise broken.

  I feel tired and I ache all over. ‘An accident.’

  ‘An accident? When were you planning to tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ I wish I could think of some better way to say it.

  She searches for words and gives up. ‘Is there anything else I should know about? I–’ She stops, unable to speak. As if there are no words left between us anymore. Nothing that can do justice to the wreck of our marriage.