by Tiana Carver
‘Oh they exist all right,’ said Don. ‘They’re all too real.’
‘Poor Phil …’ Marina shook her head.
‘The question I suppose I should ask,’ said Don, ‘is now that you know, what are you going to do about it?’
‘That’s one question,’ said Marina, ‘yes. Probably the most important question. But there’s another.’
Don waited.
‘What does it mean for this case?’
Another sigh from Don. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s where this comes in …’
He took the stolen report from inside his jacket, laid it on the table before them. They both looked at it, Marina frowning.
‘I think we’d better get more coffee,’ said Don. ‘This might take some time.’
68
Mickey was back in the office, printing out copies of his findings on Richard Shaw, looking at his watch, thinking it would be time to go home after he had done that, when his phone rang.
He checked the display. A number without a name attached. He answered.
‘Detective Sergeant Philips.’
‘Oh,’ said a voice on the other end. ‘Oh. Very formal.’
Female and familiar, Mickey thought. And in those few words, holding a lot of promise.
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, sorry. I should have said. I just automatically assumed you would know. Sorry. It’s Lynn. Lynn Windsor.’
As soon as she said her name, Mickey received a mental image of the solicitor. It was an image he was happy to look at.
‘How can I help you, Lynn?’
‘Well I don’t know, exactly …’ Her voice dropped, as if she wanted to say something private but was afraid of being overheard.
‘Take your time,’ he said. Then realised he was smiling. Very unprofessional, he thought, but he made no effort to stop.
‘I’ve …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know …’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, sensing that she needed encouragement. ‘Take your time.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve …’ Her voice dropped even further. ‘I’ve discovered something. Something …’ Another sigh. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing. Nothing important. But I just thought, you know, what with everything that’s been going on in the last couple of days …’
‘You’ve found something you think is important and you want me to take a look at it.’
The relief in her voice was palpable. ‘Exactly. Look, I’m sorry, it’s probably nothing, like I said, but I just … Can I see you? Tonight?’
If the smile Mickey had experienced on hearing her voice hadn’t been professional, the erection he felt stirring certainly wasn’t. ‘Yeah, sure … when and where?’
I think it would be better if you came round to my flat,’ she said, voice low and breathless. ‘Will that be OK?’
‘Sure …’
‘I’ll give you directions.’
She did so.
‘See you soon,’ she said. ‘Oh, one thing, Mickey …’
‘I’m still here.’
Her voice took on a breathy aspect. ‘Don’t tell anyone. Please.’
His own voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Well it’s not correct procedure, strictly speaking …’
‘Please, Mickey. Please. I’m taking a … a big risk coming to you about this. If anyone finds out about it …’ Another sigh.
‘Well …’
‘Please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ And she was. Her voice was doing exactly that. ‘Keep this to yourself. If anyone else found out about this … please …’
He sighed. ‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. You won’t regret it.’ And she rang off.
Mickey pocketed his phone. Sat staring at the screen.
Wondering whether he had just done the right thing.
Wondering if he was about to make things worse.
69
‘Found it.’
Donna stopped what she was doing, looked up. She had been sitting on the bedroom floor, pulling out drawer after drawer, rifling through the life she had spent with Faith. She hadn’t been enjoying it. It was like a betrayal of trust, no matter that Faith was dead. She felt like a horrible, venal relative, tearing up the family home looking for a will, seeing what she could get out of it for herself.
Which in a way was exactly what she was doing.
Except, she kept telling herself, it was the only way she could keep both herself and Ben alive. And if she made a little money from it too, so much the better. She was sure that was what Faith would have wanted. It was what she had been doing herself. When she died.
Donna had been getting sidetracked, seeing clothes Faith would never wear again, remembering times when she had worn them. Places they had gone together. Fun they had had. If she had kept on like that, she would have found herself tearing up. So when Rose shouted, she was glad of the distraction.
She looked up, felt the pain in her knee, tried to ignore it.
Rose was in Ben’s room. The boy had been exiled to the living room, stuck in front of a DVD. Donna had thought that was for the best. She didn’t want him to see the two of them tear the house apart.
Rose entered the bedroom holding aloft a blue exercise book. Donna looked at it. She could remember Faith buying it, coming home from Wilkinson’s with it. I’m writin’ my life story, she had said, and they had both laughed. And that had been the last Donna had thought of it.
Until now.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped protectively round her damaged ribs. ‘Have a look at this,’ she said. ‘See if it means anything to you.’
Donna pulled herself off the floor, sat next to the police officer.
Rose opened the book. The two women started to read.
They didn’t move.
‘Oh my God …’ Rose was stunned.
Donna said nothing. There was nothing more to say.
They read on.
70
‘Just put the gun down,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ He looked down at the prone figure of the psychologist, wanted to amend his words: don’t do anything even more stupid. But didn’t think it would help.
‘Too late for that,’ said the gunman. ‘Much too late.’
Phil realised just how terrified the gunman was. And a man carrying a gun with that level of fear was a perfect recipe for disaster.
‘Come on,’ he said, edging forward incrementally, his voice low and reasonable. ‘Just put it down. Let’s talk.’
Phil became conscious of Anni at his side. The one team member trained in hostage negotiation. He stepped back, allowing her to move forward. Looked at her, gave an imperceptible nod. She returned it, acknowledged it with her eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ she said, edging nearer to the gunman.
The man looked confused, head turning from one of them to the other, then back to the child, screaming in the bed.
‘I’m Anni,’ she said. ‘Tell me your name and we can talk.’
The man opened his mouth as if to speak, jaws working, lips moving, but no sound emerged.
Phil watched as a rivulet of sweat formed on the man’s forehead and ran over his eyebrow, down the side of his face. He shook his head, clearly irritated by it, waving his gun as he did so. Phil’s fingers curled to a fist, opened once more. His body tensed, ready to grab the man.
And then his phone rang.
The man swung the gun on him. Phil stared down the barrel as it shook.
‘I’m turning it off,’ he said, taking the phone from his pocket, making a clear show of pressing the button. ‘See,’ he said, dropping it back into his pocket. ‘It’s off.’
Anni stared at him. He moved back.
‘Come on,’ said Anni, eyes never leaving the man, voice never wavering. ‘Just tell me your name, then we can get all this sorted out.’
His mouth moved again. Phil was reminded of a cow chewing the cud.
<
br /> ‘S-s-s … Samuel …’
Anni summoned up a smile. ‘OK, Samuel.’ She slowly took the lapels of her jacket between finger and thumb, opened it slowly. ‘I’m unarmed, Samuel, look. No gun.’ She let the jacket drop back into place. ‘And my colleague’ – she nodded towards Phil – ‘he’s not armed either. Just his phone. So you put your gun down, OK? Then we can talk.’
All the time edging closer, closer …
‘I’m … I’m finished,’ said Samuel, more sweat springing from his features. ‘Whatever happens, I’m finished …’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Anni. ‘Not yet. We can still salvage the situation.’ Edging closer, closer … ‘Come on, Samuel …’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand … I have to do this. If I … if I don’t do this, I’ve lost everything. I’m finished. Either way, I’m finished …’
‘Why, Samuel? Why are you finished? You don’t need to do this.’
‘I do!’ Shouted. ‘I’ve got to … got to …’ Tears sprang from his eyes, mingled on his cheeks with the sweat.
Phil risked a look at the boy on the bed. He had stopped screaming, was staring, wide-eyed, between the adults in the room. Phil kept focused, kept his attention on the gunman.
‘Who says you have to do this, Samuel?’ Anni was asking. ‘Who? Taking the boy isn’t your idea, I can see that. So whose is it? Who’s told you to take him?’
‘The … the Elders …’
‘The Elders?’ said Anni. ‘Why do they want the boy?’
‘They … they need him for the … the … sacrifice … Oh God …’ Fresh tears came, along with sobs.
His gun arm wavered. Phil edged ever closer.
Suddenly the gunman looked round, saw what Phil was doing. Swung his gun wildly in his direction. ‘Get back! Get back! Don’t make me shoot you too … please …’
‘Just keep calm, Samuel,’ said Anni, trying not to let the tension show in her voice. ‘Keep calm. Everything will be fine if you keep calm …’
He swung back towards her. ‘No it won’t, no it won’t … it’ll never be fine again. Nothing will ever be fine again, don’t you see? Nothing …’
Anni was still moving forward. ‘Come on, Samuel, give it up now and we can get some damage limitation in place. Come on …’ She edged closer, closer …
There was a commotion at the door behind them. Glass came running in, saw what was happening. Phil turned to him, mouth open, ready to shout at him to stay back, but the DCI ran forward.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he shouted at Phil, grabbing him by the lapels, trying to wrestle him out of the room. ‘I thought I told you to leave …’
Phil, stunned by his superior officer’s reaction, couldn’t immediately fight back. He allowed his legs to be taken away, fell sideways to the floor, Glass still hanging on to him.
Anni, trying not to be distracted by what was happening, kept her attention on the gunman and the child. Samuel, staring wildly at what was going on before him, didn’t know what to do. He raised his hand, pointed the gun at Anni.
Phil looked up, over Glass’s shoulder, saw what was going to happen. Tried to call out.
Too late. The gun went off.
Anni spun round, a bright crimson flower bursting from her upper chest.
‘No!’ screamed Phil, trying to throw Glass off him. The DCI wouldn’t move.
‘Oh my God …’ Samuel stared at the gun in his hand, at Anni lying on the floor pumping blood, at the boy in the bed. ‘What have I done? No …’ More tears began to well. A look of resignation came into his eyes. He turned to the boy, grabbed him from the bed. ‘Come on, you’re coming with me …’ Pulled him along with him, tubes and needles snapping off as he did so, the boy screaming.
Samuel made it out of the door and away down the corridor.
Phil managed to throw off Glass, stood up. He looked down at Anni, who was still breathing, looked to the empty bed. A hand grabbed his ankle.
‘No you don’t …’
Phil turned round, aimed a kick at Glass’s head.
‘Fuck off,’ he shouted.
Glass fell backwards, hand to the side of his head. Phil looked again at Anni. She had her right hand over the wound, was squeezing hard to staunch the blood. Phil knelt down beside her.
‘Go …’ she managed to say. ‘Go and get the boy …’
Phil nodded, stood up.
On the floor behind him, Glass’s phone began to ring. Phil ignored it.
He ran out of the room and down the corridor.
71
Rose closed the blue exercise book. Sat back. Said nothing. Next to her on the edge of the bed, Donna did likewise. The sound of children’s TV crept up the stairs, inconsequential and incongruous after what they had just read.
‘My God …’ Donna’s voice was small, cracked. ‘She never … she never said … I had no idea …’
‘Why would you?’ said Rose. Earlier, there would have been anger behind the words, sneering, snarling. Contempt. But now there was nothing of the sort. Just genuine enquiry, genuine concern. The words in the book had knocked all that out of her. ‘If this is true …’
Donna looked at her. ‘You doubt it? Of course it’s true. Faith wouldn’t have lied. Not about that. Someone knew, didn’t they? Someone else believed it, tried to stop her. And now she’s … she’s …’
Donna had felt numb while reading the book. Too emotionally stunned to feel anything. Faith’s words had shocked her into immobility. But now, the book finished, the words permeating her brain, she felt the tears well up behind her eyes.
She didn’t try to stop them. Fight them back. They weren’t a sign of weakness. Not this time. They were a sign of solidarity. Faith deserved her tears. Especially after what she had endured.
She felt an arm round her shoulders. Rose. She should have been surprised at the other woman’s touch, especially given what she knew about her, but she wasn’t. No one could have read that account and not been touched.
They sat like that for what seemed an eternity. Charlie and Lola on the TV downstairs were having the kind of happy, perky life that no child in this house had ever had.
Eventually Donna leaned forward. Took a tissue from her pocket, blew her nose, rubbed her eyes. She looked at Rose.
‘What … what should we do?’
Rose stared straight ahead. Eyes on the window, the street; beyond the window, the street. Donna was aware of a kind of steel entering her gaze. A calculating anger. The light glinted off the knife she had taken from Donna, nestling in her inside pocket.
‘Make a couple of calls,’ she said, ‘then we call him.’
Donna frowned. ‘D’you think that’s a good idea? What … what if it was him who …’
‘One of those calls is insurance. Then we call him. If it was him …’
Rose took the knife out of her jacket pocket. Played the light off it. Watched it glinting and sparkling. She looked at Donna.
‘Let’s just call him. See what he has to say.’
Donna nodded.
Stared ahead at what Rose had been looking at. Thought she could see it.
Or something like it.
72
Mickey pressed the buzzer. Waited.
The flat was a new-build, one of many that had sprung up in the town centre in recent years. He lived in one like it. But not too like it. This one was much more upmarket than his. Next to the River Colne, down by Hythe Quay. Mickey remembered the place well. He had encountered a very nasty murderer on the other side of the river less than a year ago.
A voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’
Mickey paused. Who was he? Mickey Philips, was that too informal? DS Philips, was that too formal? What?
‘DS Philips … Mickey Philips.’
Compromise. Both.
‘Oh, hi, Mickey.’ Lynn Windsor’s voice, full of light and warmth. ‘Buzzing you in. Come on up. Third floor.’
Mickey walked up the s
tairs. This place was definitely more upmarket than his own flat. Carpeted, the fixtures and fittings all top quality. It hadn’t just been built; the block had been designed.
And it was a world away from the dead bodies he associated with the area.
Or at least he hoped so.
He reached Lynn Windsor’s flat. Held his knuckle up, ready to knock on the door. Hesitated. Was this right? He wasn’t following procedure. If anything went wrong, he would be in trouble. But what could go wrong? He was here to talk, that was all. Just talk. She had some information for him. That was it. Just talk.
He repeated the phrase to himself while he stood there. Saying it over and over in his head. Hoping to convince himself that it was true.
The door was opened from the inside. He put his hand down, feeling stupid.
‘Hi,’ said Lynn Windsor. ‘I thought I heard you there. Come in.’
She opened the door wide. Mickey stepped inside and she closed it behind him.
He looked down the corridor towards the living room. The lights were down low. There was music playing. He didn’t recognise it. Something slow, languorous. But with a beat behind it, a rhythm. Sexy, he thought. Seductive.
‘Go on in,’ she said from behind him.
He was aware of her perfume, her breath on his neck. He walked down the hallway. Entered the living room. It looked like something out of House Beautiful magazine. The corner unit, the lighting. The TV and music system were state-of-the-art. The pictures on the wall. Even the books on the bookshelf looked perfect.
‘Nice … er, nice place you’ve got here.’
‘Thank you. I can’t take much credit for it, I’m afraid. This is how it was when I moved in.’ She laughed. ‘I feel like I’m just squatting. Drink?’
‘Erm …’
‘I’ve got some beer in the fridge.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Beer’s fine.’
She walked off into the kitchen, called back to him. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
He tried to. Perched himself on the edge of the sofa.
Lynn re-entered holding a bottle of beer. ‘Bottle OK, or would you prefer a glass?’
