The Bridge

by Stuart Prebble

  “Yes, Michael?” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m calling because I may be able to help you. I think it’s possible that the man you are looking for is my older brother. His name is Martin.”

  Ninety minutes later the senior detective and his assistant, Detective Constable Georgia Collins, were sitting across from Michael at the kitchen table in Rose’s apartment. He and Collins had set off straightaway after Michael’s phone call, but had asked DC Squires to use the time while they were on their way to find out everything they could about his older brother, Martin. Now Bailey was speaking on the phone to Squires and told the junior officer that he was about to put the call onto the speaker so that all of them could hear it. He placed his cell phone on the table between the three of them.

  “The name of the person we are interested in is Martin Bannerman. That was the family name before it was changed by Michael’s grandmother to Beaumont. Martin, of course, kept his original surname while in detention, and we think that that’s what he is probably known as now.”

  “And where do we think he is?” asked Bailey.

  “He was transferred from Feltham into the normal system three years ago when he reached the age of eighteen,” said Squires. “His conduct while inside doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary. They do vocational training there, and in fact the only thing it does show of any note is that he had an aptitude as a sound engineer. Interesting coincidence that he has the same talent as his brother. He seems to have become something of an expert. Feltham thinks they still have some tapes somewhere of him speaking, so they’re sending them over.”

  “Did no one there think to check any voice recordings when we put out our appeal?” asked Collins.

  “Apparently they have quite a few voice recordings in the files and were planning to start going through them on Monday,” said Squires. The two detectives sitting at the kitchen table both looked at the ceiling and shook their heads as Squires continued.

  “It seems that Martin was released on life license four months ago.”

  “What does ‘life license’ mean?” asked Michael.

  “It means that technically he is still serving his sentence,” said Collins, “but he’s doing so in the community and could be recalled back into custody at any time.”

  “Yes,” said Squires, “and theoretically he’s supposed to report to a probation officer. It seems that he did so regularly for the first few weeks but has disappeared off the radar these last two months.”

  “And nobody in the system thought to draw this to our attention?” Bailey banged the flat of his hand down on the table. “A bloke of the right age, who was originally put away for drowning his baby sister, and who likes to record his own voice. What were we waiting for, a signed confession?” No one had any answers that they wanted to share. “OK,” said Bailey. “That’s it. Let’s get an up-to-date picture from the records and circulate his photo and description to the papers and media.”

  “Just wait a minute,” said Michael. “You are about to put out a mug shot of me! Martin is just a year older than me, but we already know that he may as well be my twin. I’ve just been through hell on earth by having my name and photo splashed all over the world’s press and media.” He was close to losing control, and his voice cracked with emotion. “My grandmother has quite literally had a stroke as a result of it and is clinging to life in the intensive care unit of St. Thomas’ Hospital. And now you’re about to publish a photo which looks exactly like—guess who?”

  “I’m sorry, Michael. Obviously I see the point you’re making, and I sympathize, but what choice do we have? This precious brother of yours is killing little children. At random. Whenever and wherever he likes. Knowing who he is and what he looks like but not doing whatever we can to apprehend him as soon as possible is not an option.”

  “So once again the world will think it’s me you’re looking for? Wherever I go, I am well and truly fucked.”

  For several moments no one in the kitchen spoke, and after a silence lasting a full twenty seconds, the next words came from the disembodied voice of DC Squires.

  “Can I suggest something?”

  * * *

  Two hours later Michael was again sitting between Bailey and Collins, but this time they were all facing outwards into a phalanx of perhaps a hundred journalists and photographers at a hastily called press conference at New Scotland Yard. Word had spread that the young man who had been arrested earlier as a suspect would be appearing with the police who arrested him, and what would anyway have been a scramble for the best positions turned into a frenzy. The flash of cameras and whir of motorized lenses threatened to make Michael dizzy, and after five minutes of mayhem Chief Superintendent Bailey called the meeting to order.

  “Michael Beaumont has kindly agreed to join us here today because we have reached what we believe is a crucial breakthrough in our investigation as a result of his assistance. I want to make as clear as I possibly can that Mr. Beaumont is not a suspect in our inquiries. We have been dealing with a case of mistaken identity and some other confusion, which we have now cleared up, and I am happy to confirm once again that Michael Beaumont is completely innocent of the crimes we have been investigating and has nothing directly to do with them. However”—Bailey paused, and for a moment it almost seemed as though he might be enjoying the anticipation of what was to follow—“we do now have what we regard as a reliable lead, and I am in a position to show you a photograph of the person we are looking for in our murder inquiry.”

  There was a renewed buzz of anticipation in the room, and Bailey turned to look offstage and signaled to a technician who was operating a large screen which had been set up behind the desk. A moment later the white space was filled with a full-face photograph of a young man of twenty-one years of age—who looked almost exactly like Michael Beaumont.

  “This man is called Martin Bannerman. As you can probably see, he bears a striking resemblance to Michael Beaumont here, and that’s because he is Michael’s older brother. I have asked Michael to join us today, first of all to make totally clear to everyone that the person we are looking for is not him. And second because, in case Martin Bannerman is watching, Michael would like the opportunity to speak to him directly.” He turned. “Michael?”

  Michael was not sure exactly what he was going to say. A range of thoughts and feelings had been churning within him, but had reached a new climax of emotion with the full realization that he had no choice but to betray to the police what he had worked out about his brother. Now, as the cameramen turned towards him like snipers at target practice, he tried to focus his thoughts by reflecting on what his mother had gone through, what his grandmother had gone through, what his grandfather had gone through, and what he himself had gone through. Alongside those thoughts, though, he retained the gnawing suspicion that his brother had played some part in incriminating him in the killings. The thought disturbed him deeply, not least because he could think of no reason whatsoever that anyone should do such a terrible thing to his own sibling; but then immediately he reflected that set against the far more appalling crimes which Martin was suspected of, framing a younger brother fell into pale insignificance. Right now, though, Michael was determined to marshal all his resources, and once again to try to do the thing that Rose had always urged upon him. His task was to try to see the world from the point of view of his brother and, in doing so, to determine what he would need to say to persuade him to stop his campaign of terror and hand himself in to the police.

  Michael looked around and eventually decided to select one camera and to look directly into the lens.

  “Martin. We have never met. Or at least, obviously, we have met, but not for the past eighteen years to my certain knowledge. Stuff happened when we were tiny kids which you have had to deal with ever since then. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I do know that we have to bring all these killings to an end, so you need to come forward and tell the police whatever you
know. It’s what our mother wants, and it’s what our grandmother would want. Of course the long separation means that I don’t feel I know you as I would like to know you, but I feel I do know something about you because we are brothers, and that must count for a lot.” Michael paused, unsure about whether to continue with the thought he had in his mind, but then swallowed hard and once again looked straight into the camera. “I don’t remember much about all those times, but I do have a memory of us clinging together for dear life when they tried to separate us, and I felt that half of me was being ripped away when they took you. So please, if you feel and remember any of that as I do, then for me and what’s left of the family, come forward and give yourself up before anyone else gets hurt. Give us a time and place, and I will be there to meet you and make sure that you are safe. I promise you that.”

  The room was full, with perhaps two hundred people, but when Michael finished speaking there was complete silence. It was as though the world held its breath as the realization of what had just happened sank in. The moment was about to be broken by a barrage of shouted questions when DCS Bailey picked up the threads of what Michael had said.

  “So, to make that clear to Martin Bannerman if he is watching. Your brother and the rest of us are asking you to contact us on a number which we will give in a moment, and we will meet you wherever and whenever you say. Michael will be with us to guarantee your safety. Please give yourself up, before anyone else gets hurt.”

  DCS Bailey now turned to Michael and told him that he could leave the stage while he and Collins dealt with any more inquiries from the press. There was a further chorus of shouted questions as he stood up to go, but Michael was emotionally drained and was glad to leave the rest of the news conference to the police. When he opened the door and went into the corridor outside, he was happy to see the kind face of Sergeant Mallinson.

  “Hello, Michael,” he said, and Michael was surprised to see the sergeant extending his right hand. He took it in his and shook it warmly. “That must have been incredibly difficult, but you managed it brilliantly well. You hit exactly the right note. It was a brave thing to do. Very, very brave.” Michael thanked the sergeant and accompanied him along the corridor to an outer hallway. “What happens now, do you think?” he asked. “I guess we wait to see if Martin contacts us?”

  Before Mallinson could answer, Michael looked up and saw that the door on the other side of the hallway was opening, and a uniformed officer was showing two women into the room. The officer looked across and caught Michael’s eye, and then pointed him out. Because of the unexpected context, it took a few seconds for Michael to realize that the two women were Esme and his mother, Margaret. He felt a hard knot forming in his stomach in anticipation of terrible news, but when he was able to see the expressions on their faces their anxiety was of a different kind.

  “She’s awake, Michael, and she’s asking for you,” said his mother. Michael scarcely dared to believe the words, and his face showed instant relief and joy, but straightaway he felt Esme’s hand on his arm, and her face was close to his.

  “She is very weak, Michael, and you know that in any event she has not got long, but it’s important that you see her if you can.”

  “I’m there,” he said, and turned back to Sergeant Mallinson. “Can you spare me the use of a fast car?”

  Fifteen minutes later Michael burst through the doors leading to the intensive care unit at St. Thomas’ and headed directly towards the room in which he had last seen Rose. Esme and his mother had suggested that they should make their own way from the hospital’s main entrance while he went on ahead. Michael walked quickly, and a renewed wave of fear gripped him as he looked through the glass and saw that a doctor and nurse were standing at the bedside, but there were three other people whom he did not recognize. He was about to push open the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around to see that it was Christopher, who had been looking after his grandmother when he last visited.

  “Don’t worry, Michael,” he said, “your grandmother has been moved to another room. The one she was in has specialized equipment which she doesn’t need anymore, so we have put her in a more comfortable place just down the corridor.” His voice was soft in the way that people speak to the newly bereaved. “Let me show you.”

  Christopher led the way along the corridor towards a far corner, which seemed to be tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the unit. Rose’s room was in semidarkness, and when he entered Michael was immediately aware that there were none of the flashing lights and bleeping machines which he associated with intensive care. He looked over and saw his grandmother’s head resting on the pillows and that there were no tubes or drips by her bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing deeply.

  Michael stood at her bedside and looked at her face. He felt relieved to see that there was no trace of pain or discomfort in her expression, and nothing about her suggested that she was fighting demons; she was at peace.

  “She was conscious a little while ago, Michael,” said Christopher. “We told her you were on your way, and she was trying to stay awake. She agreed to go to sleep if we promised to wake her when you got here. I’m afraid I did make that promise, and if it’s OK with you, I’m going to keep it.”

  Michael’s instinct was to refuse. “But she’s sleeping so peacefully. Surely if she’s going to get better…” Merely speaking the words made him realize that they were inappropriate, and he stopped and nodded his head. “OK, well, that would be good then. I’d be so happy if I could feel that she could see and maybe understand me just one more time.”

  “She was quite cogent,” said Christopher. “She is in no pain.”

  Christopher walked to the other side of the bed, and very gently he put his hand on Rose’s shoulder. Once again, Michael saw the shapes of cherubs in the tattoos on Christopher’s forearm and noted the contrast between his healthy flesh against the yellowing and dying skin stretched over Rose’s collarbone. The nurse brought his lips quite close to her ear and whispered very softly, “Rose. Rose. It’s Michael. Your grandson Michael. He has come to see you, Rose. He’s here with me now. Can you open your eyes? He’d love to talk to you.”

  At first Michael thought there would be no response, but then within a few seconds he heard a murmur of what might have been acknowledgment and saw a tiny flicker under her eyelids. It was as if she was in the deepest of sleeps and was struggling to climb up and out again for a last visit to the conscious world.

  “Michael,” she said, and he saw that she was moving her bony hand towards him, and he took it as gently as he knew how. Her flesh seemed cold and clammy to the touch, and nonetheless he lowered his head to kiss the back of her hand.

  “Grandma. Yes, it’s me. It’s Michael. I’m here. I’m here with you. I’m safe and you are safe and we are here together, and everything is going to be all right.”

  “Michael?” Her voice expressed disbelief and a need for further reassurance. “Is it you? Are you safe and OK?” He could see that she was struggling to open her eyes just a fraction, and perhaps she could see enough to make out the shape of him against the light.

  “Yes, Rose. It’s Michael. And I’m fine. I promise. Everything is going to be all right. I promise you.” He saw her face relax, and she exhaled deeply. It was a second before she began to breathe in again, and Michael felt a moment of anxiety. He looked at Christopher, who closed his eyes and mouthed the words Not long. He turned and walked to the edge of the room, on hand if needed but allowing a few private moments.

  “Grandma.” Michael leaned in so that his face was inches from hers on the pillow and spoke as softly as he could. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. Not ever. You are a truly wonderful person, and you have been a truly wonderful grandmother to me. I will never be able to thank you, and for the rest of my life I’ll be grateful for what you have done for me. I shall try to live my life as you would have wanted me to.” He was still holding her hand and thought he c
ould feel a slight squeeze on his. “You can let go now, Grandma. You’ve done everything you could do, and you’ve done it all very well. I hope I will see you again one day, but meanwhile, go and be at peace.”

  Michael detected a small sound at the door and turned to see that Esme and his mother were standing silently. He stood straight and beckoned them forward. The two women and Michael stood at Rose Beaumont’s bedside and watched her fade away.

  TWENTY

  There was never any answer from the scores of calls which Michael made in the following days to Alison’s landline and her cell phone. Both eventually clicked onto her voice mail and both eventually declared that the available capacity had been exceeded and no more messages could be recorded. At one point Michael considered trying to involve the police in the search for her, but he had no reason to believe she had any idea where his brother was, and it would be inexcusable to persuade them to use resources to locate her.

  The need to make arrangements for the funeral meant that Michael and his mother spoke regularly in those few days, and the necessity to make practical decisions and plans was a useful diversion from the intensely emotional circumstances in which both found themselves. Discussions about the location of the ceremony and the type of coffin were of sufficient importance and gravity, ironically, to divert their thoughts from other immediate concerns. They sat together through the evenings discussing who needed to be invited, and at one time they even found themselves laughing when they considered what could possibly be said by the minister at the service about the loss to the family. In the context of the carnage which seemed to surround every aspect of the Beaumonts like a Greek tragedy, Rose’s death from natural causes at the age of eighty-five might be considered light relief. Their laughter did not last for long, and mother and son retreated into their own thoughts; but for the first time in eighteen years, they slept under the same roof, and Michael thought that Rose would have been happy to know that her daughter was sleeping in her bed.