“I made a thorough search and the address isn’t there. I shouldn’t have let him go upstairs on his own.” For once Leslie Ryland was self-critical. “But I was worrying the old girl might identify me.” McMarn had done more damage to the room and he gazed round uncomfortably, wondering if the old bastard had finally gone off his trolley. Several pictures had been smashed, bits of china duck were all over the floor and a Swiss cuckoo clock lay in pieces, as did what was left of a chiming music box and an imitation Staffordshire dog.
“We should be thinking ahead — not indulging in personal recrimination.” McMarn was generous, but only because he had been indulging in a little personal therapy.
“I’m sure Coyd knows where his brother is — and I don’t reckon he’s in Bournemouth either.”
“Your powers of deduction are astounding, Leslie,” sneered the Candy Man. “Do you think it’s possible our Freda knows, too?”
“She might do.”
“You must find out, mustn’t you?”
Later, McMarn sipped at the hot chocolate Leslie had grudgingly made him, giving a grunt of dissatisfaction. “There’s skin on this. You know how I hate skin.” He scraped it off and put the grey scum in his saucer.
“You’re taking it all very calmly.” Leslie was uneasy. “I expected you to jump up and down.”
“I’m a little too old for that.” McMarn smiled bitterly. “I’d like to jump up and down on you, though. You’re a useless bastard, aren’t you?”
“I’ll find Barrington. I’ll kill him.”
“That’s the fighting talk I like to hear.”
McMarn felt a little cheered. Once Leslie thought somebody had got the better of him, he had tunnel vision.
He remembered how Leslie had once pursued another rent-boy who had found greater favour with a client, slashing his face so badly that no amount of plastic surgery could restore his good looks.
When Leslie had gone down to the pub, McMarn walked over to a small porcelain mariner with an inscription below his bell-bottomed trousers which read A PRESENT FROM BOGNOR REGIS.
“Hello, sailor,” he murmured, picking up the figure and hurling it into the fireplace.
Chapter 4
In the grey aftermath of Christmas, Anne took the train to Hastings. She gazed out at the hard clarity of the frost-bound landscape, remembering how she had found Peter yet again on his bed yesterday afternoon, his face pressed into the pillow, his sobs hard and rasping. She had sat beside him, stroking his shoulder, trying to feel something, but only seeming able to observe that he had put on more weight over Christmas.
Then Peter had rolled over, his face flushed and creased by the pillow.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Mum.”
“What about?”
“Dad. I was there — like, almost when he died.”
Anne felt the shock waves hitting her, one after the other, until she could hardly breathe. For the first time since Paul’s death, feeling returned in full force. “What are you on about?”
“I was coming home from Mrs Markowich and I saw this man with a tattoo getting out of one of those jeeps. You know, the ones with the bull bars. I think it was in Tufton Road but I can’t be sure. The tattoo was a mermaid — I saw it in the street light.” Peter was speaking very fast, his words tumbling over each other. “When I got to the pub the police were there.” The dry sobs had taken over again. “I asked this woman what had happened and she said this man had got killed in a hit and run. Then she said — she said, ‘Someone’s father, someone’s son’. It was Dad.” He had been inconsolable, his hand rubbing at his already reddened eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she had asked him.
“I only just thought of it.” He had been childishly sullen and Anne believed him, knowing how long he had been in shock.
“The police will need your description. Of course, there could be no connection.” She had tried to keep to the practical, to avoid somehow betraying herself.
“I’m telling you now. Isn’t that enough?”
She had taken him in her arms, rocking him to and fro like a baby, but she had really been rocking herself.
“Will I get into trouble?” he had asked.
“No. But we’ll have to call the police.”
“I thought it was a dream. A horrible dream. I was frightened of it coming back.”
“It’s all right,” she had said, holding him even closer. “It’s all right.”
Later Anne had called the police and they had come round to the house, taking Peter’s statement, not blaming him and being highly sympathetic. They were glad he had told them, but in any case the evidence would be circumstantial unless they could trace the vehicle, and there had been no sign of it so far. I’m safe again, thought Anne, but her shield of apathy wouldn’t come back.
A town crept by, covered in tawdry Christmas advertising, and its desolate appearance matched her mood. Would this freezing weather never go? The murky light was intensely oppressive.
Soon, the lawyers would be contacting her about the will and no doubt Rachel would try and dispute it. Now that anxiety had replaced her torpor, the sense of apartness, of being a spectator to it all, had dropped painfully away, as if a dam had burst inside her and the true horror of what she had done stood out in stark relief.
As the train crawled on, stopping at every station, unfamiliar reality gripped her. She had paid a large amount of money to have her husband killed. A wave of nausea surged through her and her protective skins peeled away. All she could feel now for Paul was an overwhelming pity, but wave after wave of self-loathing swept over her as the tide of conflicting emotions battled for supremacy. If her mother had been with her now, she would have confessed and the confession would have been a blessed relief.
Suddenly she had a vision of Peter’s face. He was already broken by his grief, but how much greater damage would he suffer if he knew she had actually paid to have his father killed? He would be completely destroyed.
Torn by indecision, Anne felt trapped on the slow-moving, hungover train, with its dirty carriages and misted-up windows, but slowly the need to confess, to tell someone — anyone — with all its hazards, began to crystallize in her mind.
The train journey was becoming interminable, and Anne suddenly knew for a certainty that she was no longer capable of dealing with Patrick Herron. However authentic he had sounded on the phone, she was sure that he had some axe to grind. Why didn’t she just stay on the train and let it meander back to London with her? Then she could make a decision about what she was going to do.
Anne pulled out the half bottle of Scotch she had put in her bag. Taking advantage of the empty carriage she took a long pull and then another, desperately needing to blur reality now the scales had been torn so savagely from her eyes.
By the time Anne finally arrived at Hastings she had finished the Scotch and was incapable of making a decision of any kind.
“Are you getting out, miss?”
A railway official had opened the door and was addressing her with bureaucratic zeal.
“I made a mistake.” She was conscious that her voice was badly slurred.
“Sorry?”
“I want to go back to London.”
“Not on this train, you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s going to the sidings. Got to be cleaned.”
“When’s the next train back?”
“Ninety minutes. Have you got a ticket?”
“Of course,” she said indignantly. He could see she was at a disadvantage and was wielding as much petty power as he could.
“Can I see it?”
Anne fumbled in her purse for some time before she produced it. He scrutinized the ticket carefully and then reluctantly gave it back to her.
“Show that at the gate, please.” He turned away and hurried down the platform with determined energy, as if to emphasise he was too busy to deal with a confused woman, particularly if she was drun
k.
Somehow, Anne managed to lurch from the train, taking a couple of staggering steps along the platform and then falling, her handbag flying.
“Are you all right?” The elderly man was standing over her, his long, distinguished, spaniel-like face wrinkled up in a combination of curiosity, compassion and mounting disquiet as he smelt the whisky fumes. He also looked slightly dazed, as if he had been asleep on the train and had only just come to. Had he been mauled by the official as well, she wondered.
“Yes,” Anne slurred, scrambling to her feet, sitting down again and then painfully levering herself up. “I’m fine.”
“Can I get you a taxi?”
“No. I’m meeting someone here. In the buffet. Thanks.” She clung on to him and he almost pushed her away.
“Are you ill?”
“No. I’ve been to a party. All night. Stupid of me.”
“We all do it,” he said unhappily. “Can I take your arm?”
“Thanks. You’re being very good to me.”
They weaved unsteadily towards the barrier and the man in the booth raised his eyebrows at the unlikely couple as they gave up their tickets.
“Now — what about that taxi?” the elderly man suggested firmly as they reached the concourse.
“No, thanks.” Anne tried to steady her voice. “I really am meeting someone in the buffet.”
“You’re quite sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Take care, then.” He looked at her anxiously, and then shrugged as she struggled on.
The interior of the buffet was muggy and warm and the condensation had steamed up the windows. A couple of women were deep in conversation about their sufferings on Christmas Day, a young man was asleep, his head resting on the table, and a group which looked like grandmother and grandchildren were eating doughnuts, the children squabbling fractiously.
Then Anne saw him, near the window, a tall, rangy man with dark hair, a moustache, fussy beard and a pale face, staring down abstractedly at a copy of The Guardian.
He looked up and smiled at her as she approached, but the smile was not reassuring. To Anne it seemed as if he was already registering her condition. She resented the way he was summing her up, but could do little about it as she lurched towards him, feeling slightly sick. Suppose she threw up all over him. Could he cope with that, too?
“Anne Lucas? I’m Patrick Herrón.”
“I guessed.” She shook hands and sat down heavily at the table. “Could you get me a black coffee?” she asked, with as much dignity as she could muster.
Whilst he was gone Anne tried to compose herself, but in fact felt much worse as the nausea withdrew and total exhaustion enveloped her. Her mouth was so dry that she became desperate for another drink.
She rummaged in her handbag and watched the rangy man return. He looked tired now, but there was something else about him — a kind of fragility Anne had not noticed at first.
“I’m sorry —”
“Yes?” he asked.
She gave him the money. “Could you get me a couple of those miniature brandies?”
“Of course.”
He went away again without question. His sports jacket and jeans were slightly grubby but he didn’t look unkempt. His hair was short, which suited him, and he gave an overall impression of decisiveness. An organized man, she thought, and perceptive. Did she fear that, or was it comforting?
Anne opened the miniature and poured its contents into her coffee.
“Well, now,” she said, trying to assume some authority. Instead she hit the cup with her elbow, and although she didn’t knock it over she spilt half the contents on to the table. “Shit!”
He began to mop it up with a couple of paper napkins, saying nothing.
Anne opened the second miniature more carefully and poured it down her throat.
Still he said nothing, disposing of the napkins under the table and then sitting there patiently, his eyes on hers.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Arriving like this.”
He grinned and the ironic smile lit his face. “Have some more.”
“I’ll get worse.”
“No — you’ll get better.” He waved away her money and returned with a little cluster of bottles.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, unscrewing another.
“You must,” he replied firmly.
“Why did you ring me?” she asked, attempting to assert herself, conscious of the slurring of her words, trying to make conversation.
“I read The Guardian at the Scrubs. Your reputation precedes you.” He was respectful, but Anne felt Herrón had a quiet authority over her now. Surprisingly, it wasn’t unpleasant. Nor was it threatening. In fact, it was reassuring.
“You must think —”
“What must I think?”
“That I’ve got a drink problem.”
They both gazed down at the litter of little bottles on the table and laughed.
“Only in miniature?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“When I was inside I used to think about booze all the time, but when I came out and decided to get drunk, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t like the taste of the stuff any more.”
“Did you get drugs in prison?” Anne was keeping him talking now as the impossible idea stole into her mind.
“Not a lot. Speed — some marijuana.”
“Were you a heavy drinker?”
“So-so.” He caught her eye. “And you?”
“Yes.”
“Been a long time?”
“My marriage broke up,” she answered evasively.
He didn’t reply.
It was his assurance that appealed to her, Anne thought, as she opened another miniature more optimistically. “We’d better get on with our discussion,” she said, but she knew what she was going to now do and blessed relief filled her.
“I don’t think you’re ready for that. Not yet.”
She gazed at Herrón and a distant voice told her she was about to do something incredibly stupid. Anne paid it no attention.
“What’s the matter?” he asked gently.
Still she stared ahead, at a fixed point somewhere over his shoulder, and he looked round abruptly to see if anyone had come in, but there was no one.
“I’ve got to tell someone,” Anne blurted out.
“Tell me.”
She drank more brandy. The warning voice became stronger but was once again dismissed.
“Tell me,” Joe said gently, knowing that this moment was going to be crucial to both of them, amazed at the way things were going. Was it possible he wasn’t going to have to tell this woman about McMarn after all?
She was silent, conscious of the two women further down the buffet looking up at her and then away again. Surely they were too far away to hear what she was saying.
He was waiting, but not impatiently.
She had to tell him. The agony was finally too great to bear alone and the drink had given her the necessary false confidence.
“I wanted him dead,” she slurred.
“Who?”
“My husband. I had him killed.” Oh Christ, she had said it, but the expected relief didn’t come, only a sense of anti-climax.
He didn’t reply for a while, and she watched his face carefully, waiting for the shock, but there was no sign of it.
Anne knew now that this was no catharsis but rather a drunken self-indulgence that would prove to be disastrous. She had told this stranger. This criminal stranger. No amount of booze could mask the downright stupidity of it all.
“Have you told anyone else?” he asked slowly, his expression giving nothing away.
“No.”
“Do you have children?” His questions were careful, undemanding.
“A son.”
“You couldn’t possibly have kept this to yourself.”
Was he spea
king too quickly, too glibly? Her thoughts were utterly confused.
“It’s better to tell a stranger, and there’s no risk with me.”
Patrick Herrón was smiling at her and Anne took triumph to be kindness.
“Risk?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone. Or blackmail you,” he added, the same resolute authority in his voice.
“I’m a fool,” she said, panic rising again.
“You’re drunk. Mercifully.”
Anne was silent. She had told a stranger, an ex-con, a potential advantage-taker. But who else could she have told? The drink suddenly gave her a deluding clarity. No one. So wasn’t the risk justified? But without feeling a sense of relief, what in God’s name had been the point of telling anybody?
“Would you like to sleep it off?”
“Here?” She gazed round the buffet in bewilderment.
“I was thinking of a hotel. I’ll go out for a walk if you like, or I can sit in a chair and read. I won’t take advantage of you.”
What would he do, she wondered. Rape her? Rob her? Both?
But the promise of sleep was suddenly all-important.
“All right.” Anne amazed herself by agreeing.
“And when you’ve slept — we can talk again. If you want. Just so you believe you’ve told me.”
She nodded, childlike now, too drunk to care about anybody or anything. “I’m not sure if I can stand up.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Will the hotel let me in?”
“Surprising what a little fresh air can do.”
Directly Anne got outside she found she could walk, however muzzy she felt, but her mind was made up. She needed shelter. The stranger was going to provide it and she would take everything at face value. Fleetingly Anne wondered if she wanted this man to harm her. Was this to be her punishment?
“The hotels could be a little squalid in this area,” he advised her, ludicrously gallant.
“I just want to lie down — even if it’s amongst the cockroaches.”
They didn’t walk far for the Conquest Hotel was only a few metres from the station, a tall building with a VACANCIES sign. He opened the door and Anne saw the plastic flowers on the reception desk which seemed to say everything about the place. She gave a faint giggle and he smiled conspiratorially.
I Want Him Dead Page 16
