by Neil White
Joe smiled, but then he stopped himself. He’d started to relax into the evening and realised he liked her. No, more than that. He was starting to feel the beginnings of something, a connection, a need. He couldn’t think like that. She was Mark Proctor’s sister, and there were times when he got a flash of him, from the gleam in her eyes to the slight blush to her cheeks. Every time he thought that, anger simmered and took away his smile.
Melissa snapped him from his thoughts when she said, ‘I’m talking too much and you’re doing too much listening. Your turn. Tell me what my brother’s been up to.’
Joe put down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. ‘I can’t say too much just yet. He’s my client, but I need to know more about him.’
Melissa put down her own cutlery. ‘But why? I can’t just tell you everything about him and get nothing back.’
‘Come on, you know how it is. Client confidentiality.’
‘What sort of lawyer are you?’
‘Criminal.’
‘So he’s in trouble, right?’
More than he realises, Joe thought. ‘I can’t say.’
‘So how can I help you if you won’t tell me what it’s about?’
Joe thought about that and realised he wanted information more than he wanted to protect his client, and Melissa didn’t seem the sort of person who’d sell him out. But family bonds can be tight.
‘Are you close to Mark?’ he said.
Joe got his answer from the flash of anger in her eyes. And there was more than that. Something deeper.
‘You won’t be getting a character reference, if that’s what you’re after,’ she said.
That was the answer he needed.
‘He’s accused of burglary,’ Joe said. ‘His car was seized so he broke into the police compound and stole it back.’
Melissa laughed bitterly. ‘That’s a new one.’
Joe didn’t return the laugh.
She put her plate to one side. ‘Something is troubling you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about lawyers, but I can’t think many would come out for dinner with a client’s sister, one he hasn’t spoken to for years, in connection with a burglary. What do you really want to know?’
‘What’s he like?’ Joe said. ‘As simple as that. I want to know about the real Mark Proctor.’
‘But why? There’s something you’re not telling me.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘This is something personal.’
‘Very.’
Melissa thought about that. ‘He’s dangerous,’ she said eventually.
Joe closed his eyes as he felt a rush of adrenalin. There it was: the answer, a sign that he’d been right.
‘Is he still doing all that grief counselling stuff?’ Melissa said.
‘Grief counselling?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? He used to be a volunteer for a victims’ charity, but he was getting too involved. That’s why we fell out.’
‘Explain.’
‘He gets off on misery, that’s what.’
‘When was the last time you saw your brother?’
Melissa’s frown turned to a scowl. ‘Nine, ten years ago. Maybe more. Carrie was only a toddler. I didn’t even go to his wedding.’
‘That’s a long time. What happened?’
She took a drink and looked round for their waiter. When she caught his attention, she held up the empty wine bottle to indicate she wanted another. Then she turned back to Joe. ‘He killed my cat. It sounds stupid when I say it like that, but that’s what he did.’
Joe’s eyes widened but Melissa shook her head.
‘Don’t start thinking that it’s a psychopathic thing, the early stages of a monster,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t about the cruelty. It was about me.’ She took a deep breath and then wiped her eyes. ‘Look at me, for Christ’s sake. It was more than twenty years ago when it happened. Our parents bought it for me when I turned sixteen. Barney. A lovely ginger tabby. He’d sleep with me, wait for me, sit on my lap when I watched television. He was just over a year old when I found him at the bottom of the garden. His neck had been broken. I was heartbroken, devastated.’ Melissa stopped to wipe away another tear. ‘This is anger, because Mark was so protective of me. He bought me things to make up for it. He sat with me, was everything a big brother should be, but then, years later, we argued. Peter and I had moved back to Manchester and he was doing his grief-thing. But he didn’t have a proper job. I used to ask him about it, because he was still living at home then and my parents wanted him to leave. He was turning thirty and I suppose I was trying to help them, showing him how sad he looked, but he freaked out, became angry, really angry.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Just that it was time for Mum and Dad to be on their own. He went on about family, how we have to look after each other, that he was good for my parents, and that he’d been good to me. He said he’d been such a comforting hand when Barney was found, and he was. He comforted me, fussed around me, and then he said…’ Melissa paused again to wipe her eye. ‘He said that he’d been so good that I hadn’t even noticed the scratches and red marks on his hand.’
‘Did he actually admit to killing Barney?’ Joe said, surprised.
‘Not in so many words, but it was easy to work out. I asked him what he meant by that, and his reply gave me the answer.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He said that sometimes it’s good to enjoy the ripples more than the splash.’
Joe thought about that for a few seconds before he asked, ‘What do you think he meant?’
‘That he gets off on being the comforter, the wonderful and sensitive Mark Proctor, so sometimes he has to create the splash so that he can enjoy the ripples, be the one people turn to.’
Joe put his cutlery down. ‘Do you think he could go one stage further?’
‘A stage further?’
‘Kill a person.’
‘What, for the attention?’ She blew out. ‘I don’t know. For all his charm, there’s coldness in there. He killed my cat because he wanted to enjoy my distress. Anyone who can do that is capable of anything.’ Melissa frowned. ‘You said this was personal and now you’re talking about my brother killing someone. Is there something you should tell me?’
Joe wanted to spill out the words – that her brother had killed his sister – but he held back. He’d spent his adult life holding back. ‘Client confidentiality,’ he said.
Melissa nodded but she seemed suspicious. It made the rest of the meal pass more quietly, more awkwardly, so that when they finished their food Melissa said she was tired.
They went outside.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said. A taxi crawled along the street. Melissa held her hand in the air and went towards it, pausing only to reach for a scrap of paper and a pen in her handbag. She scribbled down a telephone number. ‘Call me, if you want. Or text.’
Joe looked at it. ‘Thank you.’
Melissa went to climb into the taxi but paused. Joe was holding onto the door. She went as if to kiss him, leaned in towards him.
He turned his head so that her kiss landed on his cheek.
Melissa smiled ruefully at that and climbed in, the taxi door slamming. Joe didn’t look up as the taxi set off. Instead, he thought about what she’d said about Proctor. Dangerous.
Then realisation of something else came like a slap to his face. He’d enjoyed her company. He’d felt close to Proctor’s sister. How could that make sense? But it wasn’t to ‘Proctor’s sister’. It had been to Melissa. He shouldn’t think of her in the context of her brother. She was her own person. Good company, witty, attractive, intelligent, some fight in her.
He looked up as the taxi rounded the corner, tucking her phone number into his pocket. He couldn’t see whether she was looking back.
Then something occurred to him. If Melissa hadn’t seen Proctor for all those years, how did he know she was working at Mother Mac’s?
Nineteen
He threw his p
hone to the other side of the room. Why were there no messages, no emails? Why the silence?
The day had been long and frustrating. He’d made a quick trip into the city centre, and then spent the rest of the day pacing around, the TV flickering in the corner, the sound turned down.
He clicked off the television and the room darkened, with the only light coming from a reading lamp in one corner. He needed his memories.
He left the house and went along the uneven path, grass growing between the paving slabs. The door to the workshop was kept locked and he was the only one with a key. He remembered the day when he’d come home and found it open, the lock smashed: tools moved, his radio taken, his toolbox stolen.
The workshop door scraped on the concrete as he opened it. He clicked on the light, stepped inside and locked the door from the inside.
The air felt cold and dust floated in the glare of the light bulb. His steps were loud until he reached the thick red rug covering the concrete floor. It made his special place feel warm.
There was a chair at one end and around the space there were small tables, a thick candle on each one. He closed the thin curtain in front of the window and reached into his pocket for his lighter. Once each candle was lit, he switched off the bulb. This was the lighting he preferred, the flames like small angels dancing.
The chair creaked as he sat down. He needed his box.
He checked his phone again. Nothing.
His impatience grew. He went to the messaging app, the one he’d installed at his suggestion. It was their way of keeping in touch. No records kept. No phone logs. All of it deleted instantly.
Still nothing. The hot burn of anger swelled inside him.
He typed, Where is it?, and jabbed at the SEND button.
He didn’t always respond straight away. Impatience mounting, he typed, I did what U asked. Now 4 me.
Ten minutes went by before a light flashed on his phone. He opened up the app: The Green at Worsley. 8pm. Tomorrow.
His tongue flicked across his lip as he waited. His breaths shortened. The workshop seemed to contract around him. Then the light on his phone blinked again. He opened the app and groaned when he saw it.
His box. Blue metal. His treasures inside. His memories rushed through him like a film on fast forward. Smooth skin, soft white, unblemished. Wide eyes. Angry eyes. Some fighting. Others too scared. The last breaths.
Tomorrow.
He couldn’t wait that long. He tugged at his belt.
Joe was deep in thought as he headed back to his apartment. Dangerous. That was the word Melissa used.
But what should he do about Mark Proctor?
As he walked, his mind toyed with all the possibilities. He recalled his promise to himself, that he would kill Ellie’s murderer when he got the chance, but as the evening breeze fluttered his hair and he was assaulted by the everyday sounds of the city, he wondered whether he could go through with it. Was ending Mark Proctor’s life worth giving up all this for? He knew what Gina would say, that it wouldn’t bring Ellie back, but it didn’t stop the searing heat of revenge from burning him up.
His apartment block loomed ahead. He stalled, wondered whether he was ready to face the solitude, when someone stepped from the shadows of the high wall.
He jumped, startled, until a voice said, ‘Hi, Joe.’
It was Ruby. And she was carrying a bag.
‘I want to stay with you for a while,’ she said.
Joe groaned. He didn’t need this.
‘Go home, Ruby.’
‘No. I’m not going back.’
‘But what if you can’t stay here?’
‘It’s warm tonight. I’ll sleep outside.’
‘Come inside,’ Joe said, irritated. She’d given the answer she knew would get her what she wanted.
They were both silent as they walked through the apartment building, and once inside Joe’s apartment Ruby slumped into a chair, the leather creaking loudly. She threw her bag onto the floor. Joe went into the kitchen and put his keys on the counter. He filled the kettle. If nothing else, it gave him a few minutes to decide what he was going to do about her.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ruby shouted.
Joe rolled his eyes. She should have stayed at home if she expected its comforts. He opened the fridge: a carton of milk, half a block of cheese, two bottles of wine and a potato.
He closed it again. ‘Fancy a takeaway?’ he shouted through.
‘Chinese, please.’
Joe grabbed a menu from a collection he kept next to the microwave and took it to her.
Ruby was lounging, her long legs dangled over the chair arm. He tapped her foot to tell her to put her legs down and passed her the Chinese menu. ‘You choose and then we talk,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten.’
She shrugged in that exaggerated way that teenagers have, her lips set in a scowl, and started reading the menu.
Ruby made the room look untidy straight away. It didn’t have much warmth, there were no plants or flowers, no photographs apart from one of Ellie, and blinds covered the window rather than curtains. It was tidy, though. His records and CDs were stacked neatly, the few books he had were in an oak bookcase, and there was nothing lying around. No magazines or old cups. Ruby seemed to bring some chaos into his apartment that he didn’t like.
Joe went to the record player and selected an album, a Robert Johnson collection, country blues from the thirties: just a man playing scratchy music on an old guitar. When Ruby’s scowl deepened as the hiss of the vinyl filled the room, he knew why he’d picked it: he was setting down a marker. This was his apartment. If she had any notion she could stay, Ruby would have to learn to let someone else have their way.
She tossed the menu onto the glass coffee table. ‘Chicken satay,’ she said, before sitting back and folding her arms.
Joe sat down on a chair by the window. He pulled on the drawstring to close the blinds and turned the volume down so they could talk. ‘Why are you here?’ he said.
‘Because I can’t stand living there any more. I’ve had enough.’
‘Why have you had enough?’
‘She’s an embarrassment. She fusses round me all the time, or has a go at me when I haven’t even done anything. Do some revising, or don’t stay out late, or where are you going. I can’t breathe in there.’
Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘And you think you will here?’
‘Yeah, you’re cool. You hang out with criminals and gangsters. Whatever I do shouldn’t worry you.’
‘You think?’ he said, his tone incredulous. ‘I don’t “hang out” with them. I represent them in court and then I come home. I don’t drink with them, I don’t go to their parties, and they sure as hell don’t come here. I’ve seen how they live, and because of that I worry more about you, because I’ve seen how easy it is to get dragged into it. If you think I’m going to let you doss here and just live your life how you fancy it, you can forget it. Do you think I got to be a lawyer by messing around and staying out late? No. I worked hard, so I expect you to do the same if you want to make something of yourself.’
‘God, you sound like Mum.’
‘Perhaps we’re both right.’ He paused. ‘What do you want to do with your life?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a lawyer like you.’
‘And you think that’s your choice?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Not without hard work. This is the hard realities of life coming at you now, Ruby, and that’s what’s annoying you. You can’t face up to them. If you don’t, you won’t get any choice about what you do.’
‘Why are you being so mean?’ she said, tears jumping into her eyes.
‘I’m being your big brother and looking after you,’ he said, his voice rising.
‘No, you just don’t want me here,’ she said, and stood up and grabbed her bag. ‘I’ll go somewhere else.’
Joe reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘No. Stay. For now. It’s okay.’
Ruby paused before sa
ying, ‘Thank you.’ She grinned. ‘Can I have prawn toast too?’
He sighed. ‘Of course you can. I’ll make up a bed.’
And with that, Joe had taken responsibility for his little sister.
Twenty
Sam sat back and stretched, rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. No one left early on the first day of a murder investigation but the desks were slowly emptying as lines of inquiry dried up. The detectives who’d stay on the phones during the night had arrived. Sometimes calls came in during the early hours, when people caught the late news, or when long-held secrets spilled out when the caller reached the end of a bottle.
