by Tiana Carver
A plastic-wrapped bundle was thrown into the hallway. Phil undid it, put it on, zipped up. Entered.
DS Jane Gosling was already in there, looking round. ‘See anything you like?’ she said.
Phil noticed how different it looked from the previous night. The body was gone, for one thing. Down to the mortuary to be rendered down to its component parts, weighed and examined, quantified and analysed. Adam Weaver no longer a person, just a dead organism. A human watch, broken beyond repair, lacking a set of instructions as to why it had stopped ticking.
Phil hated the aftermath of a murder scene. He often found it worse than when the body was still there. The absence of life more disturbing than the loss of it. A murder presented an end, but also a beginning. Because that was where his job started. But the aftermath showed that life went on. And in a way that was worse. Because one day that would be him.
He shook his head. He had been having increasingly morbid thoughts since the birth of Josephina. Because her existence reminded him that one day there would be a world without him in it. But she would go on. He knew that was right, the way things were meant to be. But that didn’t make it any easier.
‘Catch me up, then,’ he said, focusing on the job in hand. ‘Any progress?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve canvassed the other rooms, asked the guests if they saw or heard anything suspicious. Nothing. Not until the girl started screaming.’
‘Staff?’
She shook her head. ‘Same thing. No one saw or heard anything. Until the screaming.’
Phil nodded, looked round once more. Saw the emptiness. Felt the absence. Tried to think in absolutes, not abstracts. Weaver’s suit jacket was still on the bed, his other clothes in the wardrobe. The woman’s underwear was discarded on the bed next to a selection of sex toys. The wrapping and packaging beside them showing they had just been bought for her.
Phil frowned. Something …
‘Jane,’ he said. ‘Where was the girl from? The one in the room here?’
Jane Gosling shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘What was her name?’
She checked her notebook. ‘Maria. And then … Oh God, I can’t read it. Here, have a look.’
Phil looked.
‘Luko … sevic … ius … ichius?’ Jane read. ‘Something like that. Eastern European, it looks like.’
‘D’you know where, exactly? What country?’
Another check of her notes. ‘Lithuania, she said.’ Jane looked at him, frowned. ‘Hey, why does that ring a bell?’
‘Because Weaver lived in Lithuania. And the staff here, the woman who let me up was Lithuanian. And the builder Mickey spoke to …’
‘A pattern,’ said Jane. ‘Or a coincidence?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t know what it is yet.’ His eyes travelled round the room once more. He had to get out. ‘I’m just going to have a look round the grounds. See if anything comes to me.’
He left the room.
Outside, the air felt colder than the previous day. Summer losing the fight against autumn. The leaves starting to brown and redden. He walked round the corner of the hotel, by the kitchens. Past the bins and skips. Some outbuildings were dotted around. Old, but lacking the preserved charm of the rest of the place. Where the staff live, he thought. Behind them was the river.
He walked down to it, stood on the bank, staring at it.
Something else was hitting him. Hard. Not just a feeling, an emotion, but something more solid. More tangible. A memory.
His heart skipped a beat at the realisation of what it was. He looked up and down the river again, back to the hotel. Looked at the roof, the chimneys against the trees, the skyline.
And he knew what the memory was telling him.
He had been here before.
52
Samuel Lister walked down the hospital corridor. Enjoyed the looks he received. Smiles. All smiles. And the best thing was, even if they didn’t like him, they smiled.
He enjoyed everything about his job. Well, most things. Dealing with the staff under him, endless meetings, that kind of thing bored him. But the rest more than compensated for it. The lavish dinners and parties. The golf. The car he drove at the hospital’s expense. The money. Oh yes, the money.
And the perks. Those lovely little perks.
There was a lot to be said for being the hospital’s staff director and workforce manager.
Walking down the corridor, enjoying the sound of his heels echoing behind him, he planned his day. Meeting for the rest of the morning. Could he get out of it? What was it again? Budget strategy planning. Best not. Although anything that needed implementing could be done at a lower level. Middle management. That was what they were there for.
Then what? Lunch in town, discussing expansion plans with a friend on the council. All on expenses. Then perhaps a quick round of golf over at Colne Valley Golf Club. Yes. That sounded like not a bad day after all.
Lister nodded to a nurse. Smiled. She returned it, that kind of up from under thing with her eyes. He liked that. Made them look demure but knowing. Clean on the outside, dirty on the inside. Lovely.
He checked her out as she went past. Young, pretty. Not too curvy. Just his type. Budding. That was the word he used to describe them, budding.
He slowed down, watched her walk away, the slow, languorous swing of her narrow hips, her pert bottom. Budding. Lovely.
He waited until she had turned a corner, was out of view, then continued on.
Thinking of the nurse who had just passed, his mind hopped on, made connections. He wished it could be like the old days, he thought. When nurses’ uniforms were more like something out of Ann Summers, something that a young man could get quite worked up about, fetishise, even. Not like they were now. All functional and plain. Nothing to get worked up about. He should try and bring that up at a meeting. Claim it was for the good of the patients, the morale in the hospital.
He remembered a dentist friend he knew. Only employed fit, slim young dental nurses. Made them wear uniforms that were this side of a tribunal away from see-through. Made sure they co-ordinated their underwear too. White. Lacy. He had marvelled at his friend, asked how he got away with it. Got away with it? He had a list longer than the war dead on the Cenotaph in Whitehall of people wanting to be his patients. He had pointed to the Merc parked outside the restaurant they were in. That was paid for, he had said, entirely by middle-aged men’s fantasies.
Lister smiled at the memory. He should definitely try something similar here.
His phone sounded, jolting him out of his reverie.
Probably Jerry, he thought, confirming this afternoon’s golf session.
He took the iPhone from his jacket pocket, opened it.
‘Hello.’
Nothing. Just crackling.
‘Hello?’ He sighed. Probably one of those automated things. Telling him not to hang up, press this button to be put through to a premium-rate line in Sri Lanka or something. He was about to switch off when a voice spoke.
‘Hello, Samuel.’
At first he couldn’t place it. Then he did. And it was like reality crumbled around him.
‘What … what d’you want?’ He stopped walking, cupped the phone in his hand so anyone passing couldn’t see him, hear him speak. ‘Why are you calling me?’
‘I need a favour, Samuel.’
‘You can’t have one.’ His throat was suddenly dry. His voice sounded uneven and cracked. An arid desert floor.
‘I can and I will.’
Lister sighed, looked round. Expected the rest of the world to have stopped just because his had. But it went on around him as usual.
‘No. You can’t. I’m … I’m going to hang up now.’
‘No you’re not, Samuel. People who say they’re going to hang up never do. They just … stay there. Waiting. Is that what you’re doing, Samuel?’
‘I’m … I’m hanging up. Now.’ Weakly, as he made no effort to end the call.
‘Oh. You’re still there, Samuel. Why would that be?’
Another look round. Surely everyone was staring. Pointing and laughing, wondering why the staff director and workforce manager was sweating and stammering in the corridor. But no one was pointing or laughing. In fact everyone was ignoring him, just getting on with their own lives.
‘I’m … I’m …’
‘You’re going to do what I tell you, Samuel. You know you are. What you did came with a price. You know that. You were told that at the time. You agreed to it. Happily, if I remember. Well now it’s time to pay.’
‘I … I … What if I won’t?’
A chuckle. ‘Does that really need answering?’
Lister sighed. ‘I’m … I’m going to my office now. Call me back there.’
Without waiting for a reply, he broke the connection, pocketed the phone. Looked around once more.
His first thought was to run. Hard. Fast. As far away as quickly as possible. But he knew that couldn’t happen. He knew they would catch up with him wherever he went. Not even bother to catch up with him. Just say a few words to the right people, let things take their course.
Another sigh. Heart fluttering, he walked quickly to his office. People nodded, smiled at him on the way. He managed to return their greetings. How? he thought. How could he do that? Pretend everything was fine on the surface while inside he was consumed by turmoil? He knew how. The thought was sudden. It arrived with the heavy, final clunk of a key in a cell-door lock.
Because he had done already. Quite a few times. Kept his normal, everyday world going smoothly while under the surface he did … other things. And now they had caught up with him. When worlds collide.
He reached his office, went straight in, told his secretary to hold his calls. Closed the door behind him. Sat at his desk. Waited.
The call wasn’t long in coming.
‘What … what d’you want?’ He knew who it was without checking.
‘Just what I said, Samuel. You owe. Time to pay.’
‘I … I can’t …’ Close to tears now. Ready to just give up.
‘You can. And you will.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of an answer to give. There was no answer to give.
Silence.
Eventually, a sigh. ‘All right. What … what d’you want me to do?’
The voice on the phone told him.
And Samuel Lister knew that whatever happened next didn’t matter.
This was the end for him.
53
‘Well I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid.’ Lynn Windsor turned her back on Mickey, began to walk away from him as if he’d been dismissed.
I don’t think so, thought Mickey, following.
He was back in the solicitors’ offices, following up his previous call. Finding out what he could about Adam Weaver. He wasn’t getting very far. Lynn Windsor was stonewalling.
‘Lynn, don’t walk away from me, please.’
She stopped, turned. Sighed, exasperated. Her face looked different from the previous day. Harder, set. No flirtation in her manner, just business to get on with. Once she had dealt with Mickey the irritant.
‘I need to talk to you. I need to talk to your boss. Adam Weaver. I saw him here yesterday, going into a meeting. I saw him again last night. And he was very dead.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Dead?’
‘Haven’t you seen today’s news? Read a paper?’
‘No …’
‘He was found dead in his hotel last night. Murdered.’
She turned away from him. ‘Oh my God …’
‘Yeah. So I’m following up every lead I can.’
Lynn Windsor’s head was down, eyes on the floor. Her shoulders heaved as she sighed. She looked up.
‘You’d … you’d better … better step inside my office.’
She entered her office. Mickey followed, closing the door behind him. They sat down at either side of the desk.
‘Right,’ she said. She leafed through a pile of papers in a distracted manner, not making eye contact with him. ‘Tell me again what happened and what you want.’
‘I want to know why Adam Weaver was here yesterday. Who he was seeing, what he was discussing, what business he had.’
‘He was seeing my boss. As to what they were discussing …’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
‘Could I talk to your boss, please.’ No question, just a statement.
‘He’s … not here at the moment. Out all day. Don’t know when he’ll be back.’ She looked up at him, eyes on him, darting quickly away. ‘Sorry.’
Mickey knew when he was being lied to. He also knew when stating that fact helped him and when it didn’t. He didn’t think now was the right time. Wouldn’t get results.
‘I will have to talk to him. At some point.’
‘Well I’ll run it by him, see if he’s OK with that.’
‘Lynn, it’s not a question as to whether he’s OK with it. This is a murder investigation. I can get a warrant if I have to.’
Yeah, he thought, I could. But it’s a hell of a lot of effort just to have a conversation. He was sure Lynn knew that too, but if she did, she wasn’t letting on.
‘I realise that,’ she said, ‘but it’s not my decision to make. As I said, I’ll put it to him.’
‘Thank you. Appreciated.’ He gave a smile.
She returned it. Briefly.
‘Of course, whether he’ll be able to tell you anything … I couldn’t say. Client confidentiality and all that.’
‘Of course,’ said Mickey. He sensed that was as much as he was going to get, dropped it. Gave her another smile. ‘Well, thank you.’
She smiled too, nodded.
Mickey looked at Lynn Windsor, head down, rearranging papers on her desk, toying with a paper clip in her fingers, and knew there was something wrong. Or at least something she was unhappy about. Tense.
‘You OK?’ he said.
She jumped. Dropped the paper clip. ‘Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled, sat back. Not professional interest, the move said, more personal. ‘You just seem a bit … distracted.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Head down once more. Another sigh. ‘I suppose …’ She looked up again. ‘Just … split up with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
She nodded. Looked at the papers on her desk. Looked up again. ‘Have you got … anyone, Detective?’
Mickey felt his cheeks reddening. Anni’s face came into his mind’s eye. ‘Erm, no. Not really.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really?’
‘No.’ Anni’s face disappeared. He felt the beginnings of an erection. ‘No. There’s no one.’
Lynn Windsor nodded. Sat back, crossed her legs. Smiled. Mickey’s eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts. He tried not to look. Failed. Kept his eyes glued to hers.
She smiled again, well aware of what he had just done. ‘I’ve still got your number … Mickey.’
He swallowed. His throat had gone dry. ‘Yeah, yes. You have.’
‘Shall I call you if there are … developments?’
‘I …’ The room suddenly felt very hot. Uncomfortable. ‘Yes. That would be … I’d … yes.’
He couldn’t believe the way he was behaving. This was textbook, he thought. The kind of scenario every copper dreamed about. How many pub tales and fantasies had revolved around this kind of situation? And here he was, tongue-tied and blushing. Not very Sweeney.
‘Good.’ She smiled again. ‘I might just do that.’
He returned the smile. She looked away.
‘Well, I’d better get on with some work.’ She stood up. ‘Very nice to see you again. Good luck, and … I’ll be in touch.’
‘I … I look forward to it.’
Mickey got up and left the room.
Outside, he shook his head as he walked away.
‘I
look forward to it,’ he said out loud. ‘Tit.’
But he was smiling as he said it.
54
Phil walked the grounds of the hotel. He didn’t need a guide.
The place felt familiar to him, but it was a kind of dream familiarity. Like he had never visited in real life or during waking hours, but knew his way round none the less.
Phil was firmly a rationalist, didn’t believe in any kind of psychic phenomena. Even turned the TV off, swearing at it, when Most Haunted came on. But standing in the grounds, the trees around him, the river behind him, the way he was feeling now, what he was experiencing … he couldn’t say. All bets were off.
He put his palm on the nearest tree. A huge old oak. Felt … he didn’t know what. Rough bark, lichen, on a physical level. But beyond that, age, the centuries that the tree had stood there for. Something that had been living long before him and would continue to do so long after he had gone. A permanence. A rightness with nature.
Hand still in place, he closed his eyes. Tried to feel beyond that, reach for something else, some reason for the connection he was experiencing to this area, this place. Eyes closed tight, screwed up. He felt … he felt … nothing.
Opened his eyes again. Took his hand away quickly, hoping no one had seen him do it. The kind of behaviour Glass would use against him. Mark him down as a tree hugger, a liberal, even. A danger to the team. A maverick. Phil would have smiled if he thought Glass wouldn’t have meant it.
The hotel was beyond the trees. Beyond that was a golf course. Phil felt no affinity with that, no reason to go there. Strange. He wondered why. Apart from the fact that he hated golf. So following his instinct, he turned and walked down towards the river.
The water, flowing fast, clear, looked cold. The trees on both sides of the bank were losing their leaves, carpeting the forest floor or dropping into the water, the current bearing them away.
It was Phil’s favourite time of the year. He would have found the view beautiful, calming, restful. If not for the nagging inside his head.
And the murder inquiry.
He walked down to the river’s edge. The bank showed roots, twisted and gnarled, bare where the moving water had eroded the earth. Sticking out ready to catch the ankle of an unobservant walker.
