Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  A revving engine obliterated the birdsong, and into this idyllic English scene, from the garages to our right, a scarlet sports car erupted. It shot past us, spraying gravel, just missed the Maserati as it turned, ran over the edge of the lawn leaving tracks, and sped away down the drive. We all gazed as the car diminished then disappeared behind the distant trees.

  “She’s in a hurry,” said Ric. “I wonder where she’s off to?”

  “Pity the gun’s empty,” said Jeff, regretfully.

  James’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t tell me you’d have taken a pot shot at her?”

  “Keep your hair on, Jas, I only meant I could have shot up the tyres.”

  Chapter

  30

  *

  Minutes later flashing blue lights approached through the trees, and two police vehicles, gaudy in luminous green and blue, drove rapidly to the front of the house. Four uniformed policemen, two of them armed, got out and crunched over to us. James stepped forward.

  “I’m James Holland, I rang you. When I got here twenty minutes ago, I found Caz and Ric tied up. Phil Sharott was going to murder them.”

  The senior officer raised his eyebrows. “Where is he now, sir?”

  “I’ll show you. He’s tied up.”

  The armed officers went with James into the house; the other two stayed with us.

  “Is that your shotgun, sir?” the inspector asked.

  “Nah, it’s Phil’s.”

  “Better give it to me, then, sir. We wouldn’t want there to be an accident.”

  Jeff handed it over. The officer took hold of the end of the barrels between finger and thumb. He laid it carefully in the boot of the jeep, put on gloves, then picked it up again and checked its chamber. “This has been fired recently.”

  “Phil was trying to scare me,” said Ric.

  “I had a go with it, too,” Jeff said.

  The younger policeman stared at him, then Ric, opened his mouth and closed it again.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Jeff. “It’s Ric Kealey, back from the grave. The Man They Couldn’t Kill.”

  The senior officer turned from stashing the gun in the boot, blinked, and considered Ric. “Is this true, sir, are you in fact Ric Kealey?”

  “Yup.”

  “In that case…Ric Kealey, I am arresting you in connection with the murder three years ago of Bryan Orr, also for breaching bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time.” He ran through the obligatory caution mechanically, mind elsewhere. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” His manner returned to a neutral amiability. “If you’d like to spread your arms out against the jeep, sir, I’ll just look you over for weapons.”

  “He didn’t kill Bryan,” I said, as the officer patted Ric down. “Emma Redfern did.”

  “We still need to take him to the station, miss. Where is this Emma Redfern?” he asked, clicking handcuffs on Ric’s wrists. Dog wagged his tail at the policeman, as though Ric had made a new friend, and Ric didn’t seem that worried either. He gave me a smile and a wink while no one was looking.

  “She drove away ten minutes ago. In a red sports car.”

  “An Alpha Romeo Spider,” added Jeff.

  “D’you know the registration number?”

  We shook our heads. The officer reached for his radio and put out an alert for the car. James came through the front door, followed by Phil, untaped but in handcuffs, then the two policemen. One of them carried the box of drugs, the other a stack of smaller boxes, green and white with flying pheasants on them - shotgun cartridges, I guessed. Phil’s head was bowed. His lip was bloody and swollen, his face a mess where Ric and Jeff had beaten him up. He walked stiffly, limping slightly. This must be the ultimate humiliation for a man like him. I felt a tiny spark of compassion for him, though God knows why - I certainly felt none at all for vile Emma. The officer put Ric in the police jeep, putting a hand on his head to guide him (why do they do that?) Dog jumped in after him, and they put Phil in the back of the van.

  We hung around for a while, something we were going to do a lot of that day, waiting for reinforcements. The sunlight got brighter, the haze retreated. Another panda car arrived, and four policemen got out; I gathered they were there to search the house. They took Phil’s keys, then we were off. Jeff made towards his Maserati, but James persuaded him to leave it there and come with us in the police car. We all insisted on crowding into the jeep with Ric, as none of us wanted to be with Phil. Dog clambered about, licking us indiscriminately, his tail swiping our faces. Our mood was frivolous, as if we were teenagers off to a party; we teased Ric about being handcuffed, and the policeman joined in. We wanted him to turn on the siren, but he wouldn’t.

  Maidenhead police station is modern, utilitarian red-brick with greenery in front and more buildings and car parks behind. A big sign outside the entrance says THAMES VALLEY POLICE. I felt hungry and light-headed, but not sleepy, and was enjoying myself, in a weird way. It was just like being in a police programme on television, except everything happened slowly with long gaps between. They took Phil, and left the rest of us in a waiting room, watched over by our friendly policeman, while they fetched a doctor.

  When he arrived, the doctor cleaned up the wound on Ric’s head, and was in favour of his going to A & E for evaluation. Ric had to convince him he hadn’t been unconscious for all that long; he said firmly he was just a bit groggy, with a headache, and he’d be fine. The doctor said no alcohol, rest, and have someone keep an eye on him. Then the policeman took Ric away for questioning. The doctor stitched and bandaged Jeff’s arm, got a blood sample from me and departed.

  We got cups of revolting tea out of a machine. James said it was better than my coffee. For breakfast we had crisps and Kit Kats out of another machine. Jeff smoked, below a sign telling him not to.

  Next I was taken to an interview room, and a policeman and policewoman recorded me while I told them everything that had happened. There was a box of tissues on the table, in case I got upset, but I was still spookily cheerful. After that, I hung around some more, chatting to James and telling him all the bits he didn’t know about. Jeff was off being interviewed. Strangely, the night’s ordeal had done away with the embarrassment I’d expected to feel at being alone with James - goodness, we’d been kissing each other only six or seven hours before. I don’t know whether it was my escape from death, or his seeing me in Ric’s arms, but we seemed to be back on our old friendly footing, which was great.

  The police were going to collect the diamonds, the stolen passport, the Euros and the papers, and wanted me with them. To retrieve the things I’d need my wrecking bar, but it was now evidence, labelled and tucked away in its own plastic bag, so they brought one of theirs. We left from the car park in a police car, and drove past the main entrance. I noticed five men, dressed for comfort rather than style, hanging around, cameras round their necks. They turned to watch us go, and one took a photo. The news was out.

  Thinking of news…I got the driver to stop by a corner shop, while I dodged in to buy the News of the World. One relieved glance told me Emma had cancelled her interview with them, no doubt persuaded by Phil: the lead story was not MY ROCK STAR RAPE HELL, Ric Kealey raped me, then I found Bryan’s body, as I’d feared; it was LOVE-CHEAT M.P.’S SEX TAPES, read full transcripts. I bought a copy anyway to show Ric. Church bells rang in the Sunday morning peace of Maidenhead, and the journey to Fox Hollow Yard was quick and smooth. It’s true what I’ve read, that marked police cars travel in a bubble of other drivers’ good behaviour.

  James’s BMW was parked outside the Yard. He’d need to move it before Monday morning. As we climbed the stairs to my flat, the policewoman told me she’d got her daughter a Mamas and Papas furry rocking horse which she loved. Though I’d only left ten hours earlier, the flat had a blank unfamiliar air; I felt a sense of
disconnection, as if I’d been abroad for a month. It occurred to me that if it hadn’t been for James, I’d probably still have arrived here at about this time, but bound hand and foot. Phil would have ransacked the flat, then strangled me and set fire to the building. No doubt he’d have drugged me first. I didn’t even want to think about what Emma might have done if they hadn’t found what they were looking for. Had James arrived while this was going on, Phil might have killed him too. For a moment, it was as if the sun had gone in, and I shivered.

  I levered the George Woodrow’s body apart, and picked everything out, including a thimble, three glass marbles, a red pencil and assorted seashells. The policewoman listed its more recent contents, put them in a large see-through plastic bag and wrote me a receipt. She waited while I watered the plants on the roof, because I wasn’t sure when I’d return. The blackbird flew to the railing and whistled at me in a meaning way. Tranquillity, birdsong, the sun on my back; it felt good. I put out some sultanas, and grabbed my handbag, a packet of chocolate digestives and some apples to take with me.

  By the time we got back to the police station, I was ready for lunch. The gaggle of paparazzi had swollen to more than two dozen, smoking, talking on their mobiles, wandering around. Several took photos as we drove past. We came back the way we had left, from the car park. Jeff was on his own in the waiting room, stretched across three chairs. He opened his eyes when I went in, and closed them again.

  “Where’s James?”

  “Being grilled.”

  After a quick flip through the News of the World (it has a certain fascination, but really isn’t my sort of thing) I sifted through the pile of tatty magazines and travel brochures on the low table and selected Friday’s thelondonpaper to read. They brought us coffee in a thermos jug and sandwiches, and we’d just started on them when the door opened and Ric came in, Dog shadowing him closely the way he always does on unfamiliar territory. Ric was no longer handcuffed.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s okay…” I sensed some reservation. “They don’t think I killed Bryan.” He sat between me and Jeff and unwrapped a sandwich. “It’s not just what we said, Phil’s told them Emma did it.”

  “That’s great…” Why wasn’t Ric happier? “Are they going to charge you with all that other stuff, like wasting police time?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. But Phil’s brought up Emma’s rape claim. He’s saying that’s why she lost it and stabbed Bryan, the balance of her mind was disturbed. Of course they knew about it, it’s on their records even though she didn’t go ahead and press charges at the time.”

  Jeff said, after calling Emma some pretty unsavoury names, “She can’t prove it.”

  “No. And the police don’t think a jury would convict me, they said so. No evidence, just her word. She lied to them about Bryan, and she and Phil were going to kill us - she won’t have much credibility in court. It’s not that. The thing is, I can’t prove it didn’t happen, either. Once the story gets out, it’ll be there forever, with people thinking maybe she was telling the truth. That’s what pisses me off.”

  “Oh Ric.” I reached for his hand. How could I say no one would believe it of him, when I had myself, briefly?

  “Fuck her,” Jeff said, inappropriately in the circumstances, making Ric smile wryly. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s done a runner, that never looks good. If they don’t find her she won’t even be in court. Don’t worry about it, mate.” He squeezed Ric’s shoulder.

  I said, “They haven’t found her yet, have they?”

  “No. They found her car, though,” Ric said. “In the short term car park at Heathrow.”

  “Maybe she’ll go to France and get your old job in the Auvergne, working with the Percherons.”

  Ric smiled properly this time. “I hope not, she’d be rubbish. She’d neglect the horses, seduce the farmer and murder his wife. While Phil was adjusting to life in jail.” He poured coffee into a cardboard cup and laughed. “That reminds me, the first thing they asked me was if I wanted my solicitor to be present. I said, on the whole, I’d rather manage without him.”

  We all looked up at the sound of footsteps outside. I thought it would be James, let out for lunch. The door swung ajar, letting us hear giggling and scuffling, then opened wider, and a voice whispered, “Go on!” A petite policewoman appeared in the doorway, while her friend hung back, peeping round the jamb. She blushed, hesitated, and said to Ric, “D’you mind me asking for your autograph? I’m a big Voices fan.”

  Ric turned on the charm. “It’s a pleasure.”

  She came into the room, handed him a police note pad and a pen, and went pinker. “It’s just so amazing to see you.”

  He smiled into her eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Donna.”

  “Pretty name. Suits you.” I looked over his shoulder as he wrote, in a bold scrawl, To Donna - you can handcuff me any time you like, Ric Kealey. “I’ll twist Jeff’s arm and make him sign it too if you’ll do me a favour.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “Can you get me some dog food? Dog hasn’t eaten today. And water.”

  “No problem. I’ll ask the dog handlers.” Ric did the smile, and she gazed at him and left. Muffled shrieks and laughter died away down the corridor.

  “Jesus, I’d forgotten what you were like with the fans,” Jeff said. “I may vomit. It’s an obsession, like you’ve got to make every single saddo fall in love with you. It’s deviant, man.”

  “Shut up and sign this,” said Ric, passing him the pad. Donna seemed to have cheered him up, I was pleased to see.

  “You know I don’t do autographs,” Jeff grumbled. “There’ll be a queue right down the corridor once she shows this around.”

  “Yeah, and you’ve got so much else on.” Jeff took the pen, eyes narrowing. “And don’t write anything obscene. Just your name. That’s it.” Ric plucked the notepad from his hand. Jeff’s signature was a tangle, underlined - very him.

  We made desultory conversation as we finished the sandwiches, swapping our extremely limited knowledge about legal matters, most of it gleaned from films and television. The policewoman came and went, and Dog wolfed his lunch. The sun moved round and streamed in the window, making the room look dusty. Suddenly I felt tired. “When d’you think they’ll let us go?”

  Ric shrugged, opening the biscuits. “Dunno. They haven’t finished with me yet, they just let me out for lunch. They might want to keep me overnight.”

  They collected Ric again. Jeff and I lined up chairs on opposite sides of the sunny room, so we could sleep; ugly chairs, upholstered in harsh turquoise, with square steel legs. The sort of chair only a government institution would buy, that you’d never find in anyone’s house. But quite comfortable. One moment I was wishing it was darker, the next I had sunk into deep velvety oblivion.

  “Excuse me, sorry…sorry to wake you…” An insistent voice that wouldn’t go away, dragging me up from dreamless depths. “I’ll get you a nice cup of tea…” I opened my eyes. A uniformed policeman bent over me. The sun slanted more gently through the windows; it must have been early evening. I leaned on an elbow and looked at my watch. Six fifteen. I’d been asleep for hours.

  “The inspector would like another word with you.”

  I swung my feet to the floor. Jeff had gone, and James was stretched out asleep in his place, his blond hair tousled and endearing. I got up, heavy-headed, and followed the policeman. He showed me into the small bare interview room, and went to get the promised tea.

  “Ah, sit down.” The inspector smiled, switched on the recorder, gave a number, date and time and told it he was recommencing the interview with Cassandra Tallis. “I just want to ask you about one or two discrepancies that have come up.”

  I frowned, wishing my brain would pull itself together and join the rest of me. “Sure.”

  “While you were tied up, you heard Phil Sharott and Emma Redfern discussing how he proposed to murder you and Ric Kealey
, dispose of Kealey’s body and set up your flat to look as if he’d killed you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Phil Sharott says the conversation never took place.”

  “Well it did.” He couldn’t get away with telling barefaced lies, could he?

  “He says that in any case you were unconscious at the time, as he’d injected you with five millilitres of ketamine - which your blood sample confirmed - and couldn’t have heard anything. He claims you imagined it under the influence of the drug.”

  “Is he saying he wasn’t going to kill us?” My brain grappled with this, while my body got indignant; I felt hot and my pulse rate shot up. I gripped the edge of the table.

  “No, he admits planning to murder yourself and Ric Kealey. But he maintains that Emma Redfern was not involved, as you say she was.” The inspector glanced at his notes. “He says she did not see you tied up; she believed he was going to pay you off and take Ric abroad. He says she was unaware of his intentions.”

  I gave a gasping laugh. “She was keener than he was! She said he should have let Ric drown three years ago, she said he was too soft. She was the one who wanted to torture poor Dog to make Ric say where the diamonds were - when Phil wouldn’t let her she was going to bash him to death with a candlestick. Not Phil, that is, Dog. Then torture me instead. And she knocked Ric unconscious with the wrecking bar.”

  “Her fingerprints aren’t on it.”

  “One of them must have wiped the fingerprints.” My slow brain made a great effort and put two and two together. I stated the bleeding obvious.

  “He’s lying to protect her.”

  A policewoman escorted me to the waiting room once more. I saw a group of people approaching us down the institutional magnolia-painted corridor, and a disagreeable shock jolted through me. Emma, much shorter than the three policemen around her, blonde hair shining against their dark uniforms. Two civilians, one in a suit, one in casual clothes, walked alongside. As we passed, our eyes met. Hers were guarded; her expression did not flicker. She looked away.