by P. R. Black
She allowed herself the satisfaction of marking his face. It made him more real, more present; a solid shape, no longer an idea.
She had avoided thinking too hard about her initial reaction to his physical presence in the library. Here, at last, had been the situation she’d trained for. The confrontation she craved.
And she’d run.
Becky knew the coping mechanisms, what she should say to herself. You were shocked. Survival instincts are there for a reason. It was an unusual situation. It’s not every day you are confronted by the killer of your family. The man who now, undoubtedly, doesn’t see you as a project or a plaything. A man who knows he must kill you to stay out of jail. Or the grave.
But the reality was, she had missed her chance.
Bernard’s voice shocked her. ‘You reckon he’s about sixty, then?’
‘Late fifties, early sixties. Look at the lines by the mouth. The neck, just at the open collar. That’s not a young man, for my money.’
‘Could be a heavy smoker.’
‘Yeah, or a burn victim. But I’d guess that’s a man well into middle age, for sure.’
The image wasn’t perfect, but it was enough – the chin, the jawline, the height predicted to a degree of certainty; just under six foot. Less than she’d supposed. And the boots, of course. Size fourteen. Same as before.
If only they’d got his eyes.
‘Not a bad job though, hey?’ Bernard said, with a hopeful Antipodean rise at the end of the sentence.
‘Not bad at all, Bernard. Good work. Thank you.’
’S’nothing. See you.’ And he hung up.
A minute or two later, one of the phones vibrated on her desk, jolting her. Becky was growing weary, ground down by too much travel and not enough sleep, and it took her a while to find which phone had received a message.
It was her work-a-day phone, and the message was from Aaron.
While the cat’s away…
She rang the number; it diverted straight to answerphone.
Pulse, racing, Becky pulled on her coat and lifted her keys.
44
Bright light was an act of treachery in the basement bar. Its ancient stone steps and the greenish tinge of moss and algae were better suited to the bottom of the sea, or a fish tank. People could and probably had ended up with broken necks, slipping down those stairs.
I’ll probably die in a basement, Becky thought, as she pushed open the pitted door.
The place was quiet, bleachy-fresh and just opened for the day. Apart from Aaron, the only other people inside were a bunch of students, some of them almost certainly too young to drink, who had begun a long afternoon with pitchers of toxic-looking lager and baskets of fries.
The pub was called The Cat’s Cradle and was famous for hosting live music. Becky supposed that this was still a thing young people did nowadays, though she was a good five years away from her days of following live music. Even then, it had been mostly covers bands in the pubs, kids from conservatoires making beer money. Where had all the young hairy bastards gone?
She had come here in her Before and After days. In the former, The Cat’s Cradle was somewhere to get wrecked, to damage her hearing and possibly even meet people she knew; a place you could depend upon to collect livid bruising and black eyes, borne proudly, if there was a crush at the front.
But in the latter days, the After days, her attendance had been a dare – a bet with herself that she could go to a gig, stand at the back, and watch a live show without anything alcoholic passing her lips. Aaron had accompanied her on many of these trips; slow, steady, and yes, dull Aaron, who might have resembled an accountant when he was still in his teens. He’d shown up to one gig in a short-sleeved shirt, and explained that he had done this to himself because places like The Cat’s Cradle could get sweaty when there was a big crowd in.
There he was, with a tall pilsner glass in front of him, the rim and the insides still foamy, sat near the stage. He didn’t look up. The gloom seemed to magnify his greasy pallor.
This was a new kind of shock for Becky, in a life not exactly bereft of them. In the past four years, Aaron had been a constant. She’d realised that there was nothing between them in terms of attraction, but they had come to depend on each other. Whenever things threatened to tip one over, the other had stepped in; but Aaron was the stronger, the one who always attended the meetings, the one who never stumbled. He was part of the firmament, the nice guy who would end up getting the girl at some point in his life. Whenever Becky wobbled or worse, Aaron was there.
But now something awful had happened. She felt a stab of guilt and shame, knowing that she’d neglected him; and then a hard belt of anger. How dare he, she thought. Here and now, in the middle of everything else; how bloody dare he?
She chose her opening lines carefully. ‘I never had you figured as a cry for help-type person, Aaron.’
He nodded, numbly. ‘Me neither. But there it is.’
As she sat down opposite him, she noticed the stubble at his cheek, and then she picked out that scent favoured by truly pathetic males; old sweat and deodorant.
She kept her voice neutral. ‘How much have you had?’
‘A couple.’
‘How many since you came off the wagon?’
‘Hard to say. Loads.’ There was an impish cast to his features, a sour sarcasm that made her want to slap it off him. This wasn’t safe, solid Aaron. This was someone she didn’t recognise. The look did not suit him. ‘How about you? You had a few of late?’
‘None whatsoever. And I’ve needed one, I’ll tell you that.’ She planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘What happened?’
Aaron shrugged shoulders which seemed to have sagged in the middle like an old bed. ‘Lots of things. Work. Some girl who pulled the ripcord after a month or two. All the classics. Then there was you.’
‘What about me?’ she asked, levelly.
‘I was daft. I thought I could look after you. I got the impression you were trying to catch the guy who killed your folks. The way you were speaking… I was sure you were heading for trouble. Something awful. I couldn’t have that happen to you. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to protect you. And you just… took off.’
She couldn’t help it. She giggled. ‘Protect me? Like Batman?’
His sour smirk dissolved into his usual smile, dimpling his cheeks. ‘I was thinking more like Superman, to your Lois Lane. But yeah. I was worried. All that stuff in the papers… It was wrong. I know it. But I was worried. And I couldn’t find you. There it is.’
‘It’s done. Forget it. Come on. We’re going for a coffee. We can get absolutely wired on caffeine and biscuits. Off our nut on cake. Like we used to. Much better than beer. What is that you’re drinking? Super lager?’
He swilled an inch or so of beer at the bottom of the glass. ‘They had it on offer. I think they brew it themselves. They call it Acid Reflux.’
‘Then we’d better grab a big creamy latte. Somewhere else. Come on. I’m buying.’
‘We okay then?’ He slurred a little. He’d been drinking for days, she realised. There was even a scratch along the side of his neck, and what looked like a bruise on his cheek, settled into the faded yellow of old age.
‘We’re always okay, Aaron. So long as you’re okay, we’re okay.’ She laid a firm hand on his shoulder and waited until he looked up at her. ‘You’re meant to be the strong one, remember? You’re meant to be sitting on this side of the table, and I’m meant to be there. That’s the deal. That’s how it works. That’s how we work.’
He nodded and shoved the glass aside. ‘If we get a creamy latte, can I have half a Flake on top?’
‘You can have the whole thing. Come on.’
They both blinked into the light. Aaron held onto the bannister. ‘Something so wrong about coming out of a pub in daylight. Always said so.’
‘Don’t worry – you can creep out of the coffee house under cover of darkness.’
/> One of Becky’s phones tugged at her elbow, an insistent burr.
It was Labelle. ‘Becky – can you speak?’
‘Of course, fire away.’
‘There’s been some developments in Spain.’
She gestured to Aaron; for a moment she thought he was going to slink back downstairs into the bar, but he waited, giving her some space. ‘How many bodies?’ she asked.
‘Four. We’ve linked them to the case of the missing family in Spain. It was thought to be a mob hit.’
‘It’s our guy though, isn’t it? He’s been using the place as a burial ground.’
‘We’re keeping an open mind.’
‘Oh, bollocks. Come on. Admit it. I’ve been right, all along. I tried to tell you there was a link between my case and the others.’
‘It was ruled out before. Forensic evidence…’
‘Can be faked, falsified, and even excised from official reports. You can’t account for these gaps. But I can – you’ve been hacked, by the killer. I’d say you should start combing your files. I will give you all the help you need.’
But not his name, Becky thought. That’s for later.
That’s for me.
45
Becky saw Devin McCance displaying signs of clear stress, and found it difficult to be in the same room as him. That was the difference between McCance and her, she supposed – he wouldn’t have felt that tiny twinge of sympathy.
McCance ran his hands through his blond-tipped scalp. It seemed to be thicker than before. She wasn’t sure if ‘leonine’ suited him as a description – ‘tarantula’ would be better – but he was almost certainly the type of person who clicked on hair restoration adverts on the internet.
He said: ‘I don’t believe this… you’re paying Becky to write a fuckin’ novel? Out of our own budget? She quit, Jack.’
Across the table, Jack Tullington folded his hands and sat back. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit – new, by the looks of it – and despite his bulk he appeared dapper and composed. He was somehow more intimidating without the hat, but McCance did his best to belly-barge with him.
‘This is completely ridiculous. And I’ll tell you something else, Jack, on the record – it’s favouritism.’
Rose, the Human Resources drone who chaired the previous meeting, didn’t respond to this, but scribbled notes at speed.
Jack Tullington arched an eyebrow. ‘Care to explain what you mean?’
‘Absolutely. We know that you’re some sort of surrogate stepfather to this character.’ McCance jabbed a thumb in Becky’s direction. ‘That explains the cushty deal she’s got. It’s got a name, Jack, and that name is nepotism. And that’s before we get to… what are we saying? Publishing deals? TV tie-ins? Is this a joke?’
‘It’s not a joke, Devin. It happens to be good business. We print extracts, we distribute it, we get the digital sales. Her book would be a bestseller. Even if they never catch the guy who did it. And we can even sell advance rights to other papers.’
‘Much for? A tenner?’
‘It won’t be nothing. It’s as close to money in the bank as we can get, these days. Becky’s already turned down offers from major publishers. Isn’t that right?’
‘That’s correct,’ Becky said. ‘I’ve been hard at work on the book during my sabbatical. I didn’t intend for the splashes in The Salvo – I apologise for that. It’s the nature of the beast. I got scooped. For what it’s worth, it’s helped me. It kept the story in the headlines.’
McCance’s nostrils flared. ‘So that’s the idea. You catch your parents’ killer, while we pay you for it? Nice work. But it’s still nepotism. I want nothing to do with it. It’s not passing through my news desk, or my staff’
‘You don’t have a choice,’ Jack Tullington said, gravely.
‘How’s that?’
‘You won’t be running the news desk. You won’t be running anything. For a while, at least.’
McCance sat back and took a deep breath, marinating in the inference. ‘You’re sacking me,’ he stated.
‘Absolutely not,’ Jack said brightly, leaning forward. ‘You’re being placed on paid leave, pending some inquiries.’
McCance chewed this over for a moment, then laughed. ‘Okay. No problem. Listen Jack, I think I’ll start my gardening leave now, if you don’t mind.’
‘I was hoping you would,’ Tullington said, flatly.
‘You’ll be hearing from the union. Or maybe I’ll go straight to my solicitor.’
‘That’s entirely up to you.’
McCance drew Becky a look of such clear contempt that she wondered if he might conclude by sticking his tongue out or brandishing two fingers. He closed the door quietly behind him. After a few cursory remarks, Rose from HR concluded the meeting.
‘Seems a bit harsh, Jack,’ Becky said quietly, when they were alone.
‘Och, he’s a dickhead,’ Jack said, sipping at a glass of water and loosening his tie. ‘He’s had it coming. Showing some bad signs. Turning into a cliché. I hear tell he’s been spending time in the powder room on nights out.’
Becky raised an eyebrow. ‘On the toot? You must be paying him too much, Jack.’
‘Much more than we’re currently paying Shazia – a perfect replacement. She’s straight as a die, honest, fair, and doesn’t wobble.’
‘Doesn’t sound like any journalist I’ve heard of.’
Jack grunted. ‘We heading out for a coffee? I’m clear the rest of the day.’
‘Actually, I’ve got plans. But there was something I wanted to talk to you about.’
Jack cocked his ear, as if expecting Becky to scratch behind it. ‘Okay.’
‘First. You were good pals with Mum and Dad, right? We know that.’
Jack’s expression didn’t change. ‘Go on.’
‘You didn’t know about any problems they had? In their marriage? Nothing Dad told you about?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Were they ever in any trouble? Threatening to split up? Any bad fall-outs?’
He looked shocked. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’d have told me. I mean, they had ups and downs – every married couple does. Jesus Christ, if I had a tenner for every time I fell out with Mel… But nothing bad. Not that I knew of, anyway. What kind of thing do you mean?’
‘Did he worry she’d been unfaithful?’
Jack snorted. ‘Cards on the table, love – before she gave in and married your dad… your mother was in big demand. Every man had a wee fancy for her. And there were a few people who wondered why she ended up with your dad. Well – folk who didn’t know him, at any rate. She was beautiful. Like you.’ He smiled kindly. ‘And he was a wee barrel of a guy. Everyone thought he played rugby – that seemed to annoy him more than being told he was too short. Folk thought they didn’t look right together. But as for any idea that she would be unfaithful… hand on heart? No. Never. She was devoted to him, and he was to her. And to their kids, of course.’
‘Okay.’ Becky tapped her notepad. ‘There’s something else I had to ask. Why were you having me followed?’
‘What?’ If he was acting, he was first in the queue for a BAFTA. Jack looked as if he’d been punched.
‘Why did you hire someone to tail me? You know – that private detective in Spain. What’s the story with that?’
‘I don’t… Becky, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘However much you’re paying him – I’d ask for a discount. He fell for some pre-school anti-surveillance tricks. I’d send him on a course before he heads back out on the road again, if I was you. He should be okay to get back into it within a couple of weeks. Although he might have a limp.’
‘Becky, I have no idea what you’re saying.’
‘Don’t lie!’ she roared, slamming her hands down on the desk. ‘He told me, Jack. He had your name. He spilled his guts out. You hired him! To follow me!’
Jack raised a hand the size and consistency of a sledgehammer,
but it wavered, and in his watery eyes was the expression of an old, old man.
‘Becky… I swear to you… I didn’t hire anyone to follow you.’
‘Who did then, Jack? Under your name? Who did?’
She slammed the door shut on his stammering.
46
Him
The trap door opened, flooding that filthy space with light. Out in the world, it was a sunny day, but the sun’s rays blinded her.
The girl yelped in fright, covering her eyes.
‘Hey there!’ he cried, jauntily, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘I’ve got some homework for you. Got some lines to practise. Do it, and you can have some food. Won’t that be nice?’
Her
Becky settled down in Fullerton’s armchair. She liked that it wasn’t too soft. It placed a firm hand on the small of her back. It was a hard but fair governess rather than a soppy aunt.
She wondered if it had been designed that way. She wouldn’t put it past Fullerton.
‘Sorry I’ve not been around for a bit,’ she said, settling back in the chair. ‘I’ve been a bit busy.’
Fullerton, stationed at the other end of the room, rubbed his whiskers. ‘I noticed that.’
‘You must be one of those weirdos who still read the papers.’
‘If you want to talk about newspapers… that could mean a whole new block of therapy.’
‘I guess. Do you offer ECT?’
Fullerton began his spiel. ‘Okay Becky. I want you to stare at the blank space on the wall…’
He flicked a switch on a projector, and a black and white spiral appeared on the dim white wall directly opposite her. It was a more up-to-date version of his old disc. Becky’s mind reached for things to compare to the concentric circles as her brain struggled to process the shape, in alternating black and white. Perhaps it was the rings inside a tree; a coiled worm; or simply an unending vortex, twisting in on itself to infinity.
