Dead and Buried

by Anne Cassidy

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, holding the door ajar.

  ‘We’ve come to see you. There’s something important you have to hear.’

  Rose pushed at the door but Brendan seemed to be blocking it.

  ‘Let us in, Dad.’

  Brendan stood back. When Rose walked in she saw her mother sitting on the bed, her face red and puffy from crying. She was wearing a dressing gown and had a bunched handkerchief at her nose.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, alarmed.

  ‘Your mother always gets like this before a judgement. I shouldn’t really be here but she called me . . .’

  Her mother was patting her face and sniffing. She straightened her back and seemed as though she was trying to pull herself together.

  ‘You can’t do this. You can’t go and kill in this cold-blooded way. It’s not right.’

  ‘We can’t have this conversation, Rose. Not again. We have a job to do.’

  Her mother’s clothes were on a hanger hooked to the outside of a wardrobe – a dark skirt, jacket and white shirt. Black and white. These were the colours that Rose insisted on wearing. She looked at them now with a feeling of dread. An executioner’s uniform.

  ‘Dad, your group, this project, whatever you want to call it, you all feel that everything you’ve done has been for completely just reasons?’

  ‘Of course. Everything we’ve done has been shaped by principles, by rules. We are not some bunch of renegades. We are police officers carrying out justice. Tonight will be the very same. We have rules, guidelines. It is planned to the letter.’

  Brendan pointed to a zip-up bag that was sitting on the bed. It was small, a bag that might carry a camera and a tourist guide. Instantly she knew it held the gun, the American hardware that Munroe had provided for the killing.

  ‘But Skeggsie’s death . . .’

  ‘We’ve explained this over and over. What happened to your friend was not planned. Indeed it is an example of exactly how we haven’t operated. Then James was in a corner and felt he had to use local help. Someone outside the organisation who didn’t adhere to the rules. It was a moment of bad judgement.’

  ‘So was the killing of Daisy Lincoln a moment of bad judgement as well?’ Rose said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ her mother said.

  ‘Daisy Lincoln?’

  Brendan said the name in a distracted way. As if he had no idea who she was. As if he’d been working undercover and had not allowed anything to penetrate his world in Essex. No wonder he’d been so shocked and aloof when he first saw them.

  ‘The girl whose body was found in the Brewster Road garden,’ her mother said.

  ‘James Munroe had a relationship with this girl. He took her to our old house when he knew there would be no one there. When she began to threaten him he killed her.’

  ‘This is a joke!’ Brendan said.

  They finally had his full attention.

  ‘It’s not true. James is a good man,’ Kathy said.

  ‘He killed her, Mum. He told us.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. James would not do such a thing. I’ve known him for years . . . He is a real stickler when it comes to rules and doing things properly.’

  ‘If you don’t believe us, hear it in his own words.’

  Joshua produced the recorder. He placed it on the bed and it started to play. Rose heard her own voice and then Munroe’s answers. His voice boomed out of the recorder, arrogant, confident that he was untouchable.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ her mother whispered.

  ‘No, no . . .’ Brendan said, his voice gravelly, his face shocked.

  Brendan insisted on hearing the recorded conversation twice again. The second time he sat on the bed next to Kathy with his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his hands. Kathy was shaking her head at Munroe’s words.

  ‘This is extraordinary . . .’ Brendan said when the recording finished for the third time.

  ‘He’s not the person you thought he was, Dad. While you were doing this for some ideal of justice he had no problem getting rid of people who were a nuisance. He didn’t care about Skeggsie and he didn’t care about Daisy.’

  ‘He doesn’t care that we know,’ Rose said. ‘He’s in a position of power over you, over Frank Richards.’

  ‘And Margaret,’ her mum said in a whisper.

  ‘Were there other people involved?’

  ‘Three others. Their work is finished and they have been relocated.’

  ‘So, you shouldn’t do this,’ Rose pointed to the canvas bag on the bed. ‘Now that you know about Munroe you should not do this.’

  ‘But this makes no difference to Macon Parker and the things he does. He’s a murderer and he’ll do it again . . .’ Brendan said.

  ‘You can’t carry out the judgement now, Dad. Your actions are tainted by what Munroe has done. You didn’t know before. Now you do. Killing this man – whatever he’s done – doesn’t put you on the moral high ground any more.’

  ‘They are right, Bren . . .’ her mum said.

  ‘Macon Parker doesn’t deserve a reprieve . . . Munroe may have made a mistake with this girl . . .’ Brendan said, shaking his head.

  ‘He planned Daisy’s killing, Dad. He tied her hands with your tie. He tried to make it look as though you were the killer.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ Brendan said.

  ‘It’s true. The police have you as their number one suspect in this murder. Munroe left enough evidence. He was saving himself by putting the suspicion on you.’

  Brendan was silent. On the bed beside him was the bag that held the gun. He frowned at it.

  Rose hurried on. ‘And when they couldn’t talk to you they turned their attention to Joshua. He’s been in the police station this morning. Anna got him a lawyer. That’s why he’s here now and not in police custody.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Munroe . . . How could he do this? After all we’ve been through. After the things that we’ve done,’ Brendan said.

  ‘You can’t trust him any more,’ Joshua said.

  ‘Daisy was just a girl. A year older than me when she was killed,’ Rose said.

  ‘I should go and see him. Have it out with him.’

  ‘No.’ Her mother stood up. ‘No, he is finished for us. We don’t carry out the judgement. We get away from here before Munroe knows that we haven’t done it. We use the new passports and get a flight somewhere. Then we disappear and use different aliases. Live quietly for a while. Let the whole thing die down. There are people we can contact in British Columbia who might help us with new papers.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Brendan, we can’t continue. Not now that we’ve heard this from James’s own mouth. He is not what we thought. We’ve always been one hundred per cent sure of what we were doing. We did what we did for a better world. But if James did this then we cannot trust him. We don’t know who he is any more, Brendan. He murdered an innocent girl and it looks as though he tried to frame you for it.’

  Brendan was nodding his head slowly.

  Rose felt the tension drain away. They were listening. They had been persuaded. They were not going to do this awful thing. She glanced along the bed at the canvas bag. The gun would not be used tonight and her mother and Brendan would cut all links with Munroe. She felt herself well up suddenly. It was as if she and Joshua had saved Brendan and Kathy. Now there was a choice they had turned their back on violence. She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.

  ‘OK . . .’ Brendan said, standing up, looking a little dazed. ‘OK. What we do now is . . . What we have to do . . .’

  ‘Dad, you have to get your things together and call a taxi for Heathrow. When you get there you get an earlier flight. You get out of Britain.’

  ‘What about Macon Parker? I don’t want to raise any suspicions there. It’s almost seven thirty. We’re both due at the Tate at eight. Macon leaves his hotel at eight thirty. He’ll be expecting us. It will look odd .
. .’

  ‘Does it matter? If you’re never going to see him again?’

  ‘Ring him and tell him Kathy’s . . . Kate’s father has died. He won’t question that. Then you just disappear,’ Rose said.

  Brendan sat down on the bed again, looking hopeless. It was as if someone had punched him in the chest.

  ‘Dad, you need to get going!’

  Brendan looked at the canvas bag. ‘I have to dispose of the gun. I have to do that properly.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Dad. I’ll take it with me, stop the car along by the river and I’ll chuck it in. Don’t you worry. You just get away, both of you. Just get your stuff and go.’

  ‘Brendan, we have to do this,’ Kathy said.

  Brendan stood up. He looked like a drunk man. Kathy took charge.

  ‘You go, both of you. Let us deal with this ourselves. We’ll contact you. I have my phone for any absolute emergencies. Go, Rose.’

  ‘Mum . . .’

  ‘Go now.’

  Brendan seemed to come to a decision. ‘No, Kathy, let Josh take the gun. Go to a bridge and drop it in from the centre otherwise it’ll just wash up too soon.’

  ‘I will.’

  He plucked the bag from the bed.

  ‘Come on, Josh,’ Rose said and pulled him out of the room.

  In the car she was elated. She felt herself smiling stupidly. They had stopped their parents from getting any more blood on their hands. It was a small victory and yet it meant everything. The finish of this horrible thing they had started. She tried to explain it to Joshua but the tone of his voice told her that he wasn’t happy. Not at all.

  ‘Munroe gets away with it.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘He does. All the people involved will have moved to other countries. He stays in his flat in Docklands, drives his expensive car, has new girlfriends. He’s got shares in the security company, he works as a civil servant. He has a perfect life. Oh, and don’t forget he got away with murder. Twice.’

  ‘Mum and Brendan are out of it. We must be grateful for that.’

  ‘But Skeggsie is dead, Rose. That’s something I can never forget.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was quiet in the car and Rose reached out and grabbed Joshua’s arm and squeezed it. He nodded, seeming to pull himself together, and turned the car ignition on.

  ‘We’ll take the gun to Waterloo Bridge. It’s the closest.’

  ‘Won’t it be a bit public there? Full of commuters?’

  ‘They’ll be too busy heading home. No one will notice us.’

  She felt a prickle of apprehension. Waterloo Bridge was where Lev Baranski had been shot. It wasn’t somewhere she ever wanted to be again. Still this was different – a drive to the middle of the bridge, get out of the car and throw the canvas bag into the water. As Joshua began to edge his way through the West End traffic Rose noticed the recorder lying on the dashboard. She got hold of it and pushed it into the front pocket of her rucksack. It was important to keep it safe. It was the only evidence they had about Munroe. Then she checked her phone, wondering if her mother might send her one last message. There was nothing so she put that in with the recorder. The canvas bag and her rucksack were filling the footwell so she hauled her rucksack up and hoisted it over to the back seat.

  They were stuck in traffic moving slowly forward towards Aldwych. Joshua was staring out of the windscreen, his face expressionless. She went to say something but thought it was better to just keep quiet. Joshua had to deal with his own thoughts. They’d done the best they could and achieved one major thing. There would be no more killing. Joshua would realise that himself. In the long run.

  They pulled away from the traffic lights. Up ahead was Waterloo Bridge. It had gone eight so the rush hour traffic was easing but there were still a good number of commuters. Joshua kept a steady speed and began to slow down as they got to the centre of the bridge.

  ‘We’re not supposed to stop here. Aren’t we just drawing attention to ourselves?’ Rose said.

  ‘It won’t take any time at all. I’ll pull over,’ he said. ‘You get out. Have a look at the river. Make sure there are no dredgers or riverboats going by. Check along the bridge for police cars or any nearby pedestrians. When you think it’s clear come back and tell me and I’ll bring the bag.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Rose said. ‘Then you won’t need to get out of the car.’

  Joshua had his indicator on to move in towards the pavement.

  ‘Do you mind if I do it? Dad asked me. I’d like to do it for him.’

  ‘Sure, I didn’t think.’

  They came to a stop. A car tooted behind them.

  ‘Go on,’ Joshua said.

  Rose got out and walked across the pavement towards the parapet. She looked from right to left. There were some pedestrians but most were staring straight ahead walking swiftly towards the other side of the bridge. She looked along the road first towards the north and couldn’t see any flashing lights that might indicate a police car. It was the same in the other direction. Then she leant across the parapet and looked down at the river. There was a riverboat some distance away but it was on the far side of the river and wouldn’t come anywhere near them. The lights along the embankment gave it a festive feel but did not spill on to the river.

  It was the right time to dispose of the American hardware.

  She turned to make her way over to the Mini but stopped in her tracks.

  It wasn’t there. The Mini had gone.

  Joshua had driven off and left her.

  Why?

  It only took moments for it to fall into place. Rose felt her insides churn. Joshua was never going to throw the gun into the river. He had driven her here to get her out of the car. It was all a ruse to get rid of her.

  He intended to find James Munroe.

  He was going to punish him for what he’d done to Skeggsie.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Rose shivered in the dark. She was shocked that Joshua would leave her there. Shake her off. Abandon her. She stared at the traffic going past. A stream of yellow headlights blurred and sharpened and blurred again. A cyclist, whose light was blinking on and off, sped past her, weaving in and out of slow-moving cars and vans. The Mini was far away. She couldn’t be sure how long she had stood there because she didn’t have her phone so didn’t know exactly what time it was. She found herself close to tears. Joshua had left her there so that he could head for the hotel in Hyde Park where Munroe was attending a police social event. She was sure of it.

  The gun was in the canvas bag. It was loaded and it wouldn’t take much know-how to take off a safety catch and pull a trigger. Joshua was good with mechanical things; he’d spent years fixing bits of bikes in the box room of Brewster Road.

  Rose walked back to the parapet. Underneath the bridge the river was black and gel-like and seemed to ooze along. The riverboat she had seen before was going past, too far away to notice anyone ditching a weapon into the water.

  What are you doing, Josh? Rose thought.

  Without Rose holding him back Joshua would be able to let go of the feelings of frustration he had about Munroe. He would park his car and sling the canvas bag over his shoulder and walk towards the Royal Swan Hotel. He would wait outside for Munroe.

  Rose walked up and down. She was stuck. She couldn’t ring him because her phone was in her rucksack in the back of the car. She had no money to call a cab or get on the tube or hop on a bus. She was on Waterloo Bridge and Joshua was in a car heading for Hyde Park, two or three miles across London.

  She had no idea what to do next.

  She turned back across the bridge and began to walk. She shoved her hands in her pockets and put one foot in front of another and went as quickly as she could. At the edge of the bridge she stopped a woman passing by and asked the time. ‘Twenty past eight, my dear.’

  She strode on, heading west. She wasn’t that familiar with the streets of London but she knew that Hyde Park was near Green Park and t
hat was close to Piccadilly. A bus went past. She looked at the front. It was heading for Piccadilly Circus. It was the right direction but she had no Oyster card and no money. She ran a dozen steps to the stop and waited until a few people had got on and went up to the driver.

  ‘I’ve lost my pass,’ she said, looking pleadingly at him.

  ‘No pass, no ride,’ he said, sighing with impatience.

  ‘You could just take my name and address . . .’

  ‘You’re holding these passengers up . . .’

  The driver flicked his hand in the direction of the door. Rose got off and watched the bus move away. She walked swiftly on. At a crossroads she asked a woman the directions for Piccadilly Circus. She continued, her thoughts full of Joshua outside the hotel building in Hyde Park. Maybe he would discard the canvas bag and have the gun in his pocket. In her mind she saw him hunched over, looking for Munroe, his face screwed up with worry. His hand would be in or near his pocket. Maybe he would be forcing himself to think of Skeggsie and the way he was murdered in the alleyway. He might have to go over and over this to psych himself up. Or maybe it was all there, the well of grief that he’d felt over the last months, just waiting for a time like this. These thoughts would spur him on, his finger twitching, his heart full of hatred for Munroe.

  How calm Frank Richards had seemed when he’d pulled the trigger of a gun. She remembered him under Waterloo Bridge, one hand pulling his suitcase on wheels, the other holding the weapon. Frank Richards had raised his arm elegantly, like a dancer. After the shot he’d dropped the weapon and glided off. Had it taken anything from him? Cost him in an emotional way? Rose had no idea. She knew for sure, though, that if Joshua succeeded in killing Munroe it would destroy him. He would never be the same person again. Even if he were to drop the gun and fade away into the darkness unseen it would warp his life for ever.

  She couldn’t let Munroe do that to Joshua.

  Even if it meant him getting away with two murders.

  Up ahead she could see the neon lights that peppered the buildings around Piccadilly Circus. She quickened her pace. She must have been walking for fifteen or twenty minutes already. Munroe was due at the Royal Swan Hotel at nine. She simply wasn’t going to get there in time. She saw a London Underground sign and headed for it. At the top of the stairs there was a group of young people standing round, a couple smoking, the others talking, looking at phones. She had nothing to lose except her pride.