‘Ruger and the kid? No. I had nothing to do with—’
‘The girls. Alyssa Palmer and Megan Hamlyn. You killed them.’
That smile again. That grin of smug supremacy. He probably wore that smile when he was torturing those poor girls.
‘I killed nobody, Detective. And you will make sure that nobody believes I did. Kinda ironic when you think about it. The only person who thinks I’m a murderer is the one who ends up proving my innocence.’
Yeah, ironic. Doyle could vomit at the irony.
Doyle stands up. It takes an effort, because his legs seem weak. His whole body seems feeble somehow.
‘Yeah,’ says Proust. ‘You should go. I imagine you must have a lot to do today. Thanks for dropping by, though.’
Doyle tries to shape his features to reflect the contempt he feels, but even that seems pathetic. Insignificant. Like shining a flashlight back at the sun.
And when he leaves, it is not with head held high. It is the slow slinking away of a lowly creature from its almighty owner.
THIRTY-ONE
Doyle back in his apartment. Gazing unseeingly out of the window. No sign yet of Rachel or Amy. If they knew what he’d done, maybe they’d never come back.
How do you do it, Doyle? How do you get yourself into these messes? Do you even know what you’re doing anymore?
Let’s consider the evidence, shall we?
Exhibit one. You fucked up the case against Proust. I mean royally fucked that one up. He comes out of this cleaner than one of his sterilized needles. And you, Doyle, are the one who’s going to make sure of that.
Exhibit two. Whereas Proust gets to keep his freedom, you have signed yours away. Marked on the dotted line that you wish to be in slavery to Lucas Bartok for the rest of your life. What a happy marriage that will be.
Exhibit three. Your family. It’s a good thing you got hitched to Bartok, because your own family environment is a disaster zone. Rachel can’t even bear your presence, and Amy is afraid of what you think of her. This apartment is like the Mary Celeste at the moment. Even when the two loves of your life are at home, it’s as if they’re ghosts with whom you can have no proper communication.
Exhibit four. The job, or what’s left of it. LeBlanc wants nothing to do with you, other people on the squad distrust or despise you, and you’re not even allowed to work the most minor of cases at the moment, let alone a homicide. And when you do find a way to worm yourself back in, it will be with the ulterior motive of helping out Proust. And after that, your primary lord and master will be Lucas Bartok. So that’ll be rewarding.
Exhibit five. Is there an exhibit five? Probably. And probably a six, seven and eight too. Might as well be a gazillion exhibits, because they couldn’t make it any worse. How could it possibly get any worse?
Doyle’s cellphone rings.
He checks the display before answering. A number he doesn’t recognize.
‘Hello?’
‘Detective Doyle? It’s Nicole Hamlyn here. I hope it’s okay to call you like this.’
He remembers that he gave her a card with his number on it when he sat with her at the hospital.
‘No. It’s fine. How’s your husband?’
‘That’s what I’m calling about. I thought you should know. Steve, he . . . he died this morning.’
Doyle closes his eyes. Lets out a long, slow breath. Feels her sadness.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’
‘I just . . . I just thought you’d want to know.’
The silence that follows is an awkward one. It demands to be filled, but Doyle isn’t sure what will fit there.
He says, ‘I’ll come over to see you.’
‘No, no. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
Doyle hears her words, but senses her meaning. She wants desperately to talk to him about this. It’s why she’s clinging on to this conversation.
‘No trouble. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
When she doesn’t protest further, he knows he is right.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘No problem,’ Doyle responds.
When he hangs up, he looks out of the window again, but this time up at the leaden sky.
How could it get any worse? There’s your answer, Doyle. You had to ask, didn’t you? And now you have your answer.
He feels the emptiness of the house as soon as he walks through the front door.
His own place was bad enough, but at least he still has a spouse and a daughter, emotionally distant as they might be right now. This woman has lost both. The content of this woman’s life has been cruelly poured away before her eyes. She has nothing left to love, and probably no love left to give.
They sit in the same seats they occupied the first time Doyle came to visit. Her husband and LeBlanc were here on that occasion. Now there seem to be too many empty chairs.
‘Thank you,’ says Nicole. ‘For coming all the way out here. I know how busy you must be.’
Funnily enough, no, thinks Doyle. Not busy at all. Not unless you count dreaming up ways to clear the man who slaughtered your family.
‘You shouldn’t be alone,’ he says. ‘Not at a time like this.’
‘I’ve had people here all morning. To be honest, I’m sick of hearing the same old sentiments again and again. So if you’re thinking of telling me how sorry you are for my loss, don’t. That’s not what I need right now.’
Doyle looks across at her, and she holds his gaze. Her eyes glisten, but she is not crying. He wonders whether she will ever cry again. Not because he thinks she is heartless, but because that heart must have been wrung dry by now. She seems devoid of emotion, absent of feeling. It’s all gone. It’s all been taken from her.
‘So what do you need?’
‘Answers. Explanations.’
It’s a fair enough request. For natural disasters, it’s reasonable to look to the heavens for answers. When they’re man-made, it’s logical to look to one’s fellow human beings.
‘I, uhm, I’m not sure I have any.’
Her scrutiny doesn’t waver. ‘Yes, you do. You know things. Things you haven’t revealed to me.’
Got me there. I know everything. The who, the what, the why, the where. I know so much that I’m struggling to hold it all in. I’m screaming with the pressure of it.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Cal – is it okay if I call you Cal? – we’ve got to know each other a little over the past few days. Now I haven’t met many other cops, but I’ve met plenty people in positions of authority. I work at a hospital, and doctors and surgeons are the worst for keeping things under wraps. They tell you only what you need to know. But you, you’re different.’
‘You mean I’m a lousy cop because I can’t keep my mouth shut.’
‘No, I think it makes you a better cop. You’ve been open with me all along. Told me things that maybe could have gotten you into trouble. You put the victim above everything else. That makes you special.’
He smiles at her. ‘Now I know who to come to for a reference.’ When she continues to wait patiently, it pains him to be blunt. ‘Nicole, listen to me. I can only go so far. Yes, there are things I know. There are also things I don’t know, and things I can’t prove. In a job like mine, you have to be careful. What you said about doctors, I can understand that. We’re not gods. We can’t play with people’s lives. We have to be sure.’
She doesn’t show any sign of relenting. ‘Then let me get more specific. If there are things you can’t tell me, fine. But I’m guessing there are things you can’t deny either.’
She wants to go fishing, thinks Doyle. I should advise her not to. The sensible thing here is for me to get up and leave.
But it’s not the human thing, is it? And that’s why I can’t abandon her. She knows this.
‘What’s on your mind, Nicole?’
‘You know who killed my daughter, don’t you?’
‘I have a strong suspect.’
‘Nothing that would stand up in court.’
‘But in your own mind? If you had to bet everything you own on it being this person? Would you do it?’
‘Nicole, I . . .’ He struggles to find words that will appease her.
‘The tattoo guy. Proust – is that his name? It’s him, isn’t it? Steve thought it was. That’s why he went there. Because he believed it was him. That’s why they got into a fight. Steve was certain.’
‘Steve believed it was him because somebody sent him a note saying it was Proust. That’s all, Nicole.’
She shakes her head. ‘No. No, that’s not all. Proust must have said something or done something for Steve to react like that.’
‘Nicole, you saw how upset Steve was about Megan. You saw how crazy it made him. And I’m not criticizing him, because I think I’d be exactly the same way. But the thing you gotta understand is that Steve wasn’t exactly in a rational frame of mind when he went to talk to Proust. Somebody had planted a seed that this was his guy, and that’s what he wanted to believe. He saw how the police were getting nowhere, and here was the answer being handed to him. Right or wrong, here was the closure he needed.’
‘So who’s your suspect? If it’s not Proust, then who is it? One of the last things Megan did before she was killed was to get a stupid tattoo on her butt. And the last thing Steve did was to go talk to a tattooist. Now I don’t think that’s a coincidence. But if you want to tell me I’m reading too much into this, then go ahead. Give me something on this other suspect of yours.’
‘You know I can’t tell you who—’
‘All right. Not a name, okay? A piece of information. How about we start with something simple? Male or female?’
Doyle doesn’t answer.
She says, ‘You can’t even tell me if this other suspect of yours is male or female? Uh-huh. I see.’
‘Nicole, what good would it do to—’
‘I think you should go now.’
Doyle looks into her eyes. ‘What?’
‘I was wrong about you. I thought you wanted to help me. You know what? Ever since Megan went missing, you’re the only person who I really believed could help us. The only person who actually seemed to give a damn.’
‘I do. I want to help. It’s just that—’
‘Imagine if it was you, Cal. You have a wife and daughter, right? I’m not wishing anything bad on you, but imagine if you lost both of them. They’re both killed, within days of each other. Imagine how you’d feel. Can you even contemplate how terrible that would be? Now imagine that I know something. I know who killed them, or at least I have a pretty good idea. But I refuse to tell you. I won’t even give you the slightest clue. What would you think of me, Cal?’
‘It’s a different situation, Nicole. I’m a cop. I have to follow procedures.’
‘Fuck the procedures! And fuck you too if you’re going to treat me like just another statistic, another faceless victim of violent crime.’
He was wrong about her lack of emotion. There is still some there. Anger, mostly. Fury at the unjustness of it all. Throughout this ordeal, she has never allowed her rage to surface. But now there is nothing left to keep it suppressed. It is finding its way out, and Doyle is in its path.
He says, ‘I’m not doing that. I’m just trying to explain—’
‘I have nothing!’
Her cry sends a current through his being. If true loss can be captured in three words, then she has just done it, and it shocks him to the core.
Her voice softens again, but there is a bitterness there. ‘I have nothing left. I had a life. I had a family. It’s all gone. But I don’t even know why. I don’t know who’s responsible . . .’
Doyle feels something building, deep inside him.
‘. . . And you dare to sit there, in my house, knowing all these things but refusing to tell me . . .’
It rises. It pushes up into his throat. He’s finding it difficult to breathe.
‘. . . You won’t even tell me if it’s a man or a woman who did these things . . .’
It’s choking him as it tries to escape. I should get out of here, he thinks. Before it’s too late.
‘. . . I thought you were on my side. I thought you were—’
‘ALL RIGHT!’
His voice reverberates around the room. And now it is too late. The firing pin has struck home. The blast cannot be contained.
Doyle is on his feet, but doesn’t even know he has jumped up. His conscious thought is devoted solely to vomiting out the words he’s needed to say to someone for so long.
‘It was Proust! There. Happy now? Has that fixed everything for you? It was Stanley Francis Proust. He’s the man who killed your daughter and your husband and another girl called Alyssa Palmer. Only nothing’s gonna happen to Proust, and you know why? Because I fucked up. I fucked up the investigation. The cop you think so highly of because of his interpersonal skills is the one who’s letting your family’s killer off the hook. And maybe if I hadn’t screwed up so badly, your husband would still be alive. That’s what you get for relying on me. That’s what I did for you. All right? Is that really what you wanted to hear?’
He realizes there are tears in his eyes, and he curses himself for it. Pull yourself together, Doyle. What kind of cop are you?
But he can’t stop them welling up, and his lip starts to quiver as he battles against all the emotions flooding his system. Thoughts that had been pushed to the back of his mind are jumping out of their hidey-holes. Thoughts about what he’s done to his family, his work colleagues, and himself. But also about what he’s going to do to Nicole’s chances of ever finding justice.
Nicole is staring at him, trying to comprehend the outburst. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, you messed up? If you know it’s him, why can’t you arrest him?’
It’s a sensible question. Sensible is good. Gives him something to focus on. Something black and white rather than all this fuzzy gray stuff that just sends him into a tailspin.
He clears his throat. ‘For one thing, there’s no proof, okay? For another, I’m no longer on the case.’
‘No longer on . . . You’ve given up? Already? How can you—’
‘No, not given up. I’ve been taken off it. I’ve been suspended from duty.’
‘Why? What did you do?’
‘I did what you think is such a good thing. I got too involved. I didn’t play by the rules.’
‘Okay, but . . . There are other cops. They can go after Proust, can’t they? They can question him. They can come up with the proof.’
Doyle looks down at her. She looks like a child, asking him to confirm that Santa is real.
‘Sure. They can do all that.’
He hears the lack of conviction in his own voice, and knows that it won’t escape Nicole’s attention.
‘You don’t believe they’ll get him, do you?’
By the time I’ve finished fixing him up with a cast-iron alibi? No, I don’t.
‘I . . . Maybe they will. I don’t know. They’re looking at all possibilities, so yeah, maybe.’
‘Maybe isn’t good enough, Cal. You said you were sure. Why aren’t they as sure as you?’
‘They think . . . They don’t trust me, okay? Proust has made up some crap about me, and they believe it. They think my beef with Proust is personal.’
‘But it isn’t? You know he did this?’
Doyle fills his lungs and lets it out slowly. ‘I know it. But what I know ain’t worth shit.’
Nicole stands up then. She walks right up to Doyle, then puts her arms around him and holds him close. He’s not sure what to do. This is nice, but truth be told, he wishes this were Rachel hugging him like this. God, he thinks, I miss her.
Nicole pulls away. Says, ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For being honest with me. For doing what you thought
was right. For sticking to your principles.’
Doyle thinks back to his conversation with Paulson. Same take-home message: Do what you think is right.
Yeah. Look where that got me. Principles I’m loaded with. Be nice to trade a few for some happy outcomes now and again.
‘And for being a fuck-up?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That too.’
‘All this stuff I just told you . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I won’t tell anyone what you said to me.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t going to ask that. To be honest, the pit I already dug for myself couldn’t get any deeper. Nah, I was gonna ask if it makes any difference.’
She nods. ‘It makes a difference. I know something more about what happened to Megan. And I know that I’m not the only one who cares. And I’m not just talking about words. I’m talking about someone who cares enough to do something about it. That’s going to help me through this.’
Doyle watches her for a while. She seems somehow more content, if anyone can be content after what she’s been through. He’s not sure what magic he’s worked here. Doesn’t understand how his words could provide any comfort. But if that’s the effect they’ve had, then his trip here has done some good. And it also seems to him that he has lightened his own load a little.
‘I should, uhm, I should go now. If there’s anything you need, just give me a call, okay?’
She nods again. ‘You’re a good man, Callum Doyle. I won’t let anyone say otherwise.’
And now the load weighs heavy again. Because you’re not good, are you, Doyle? She doesn’t know the full story. Go on, tell her. Tell her how you’re planning to keep Proust out of prison, just to save your own lousy neck. See what she thinks of you then.
And when it gets out that Proust has this unbreakable alibi, and she comes to you for an explanation, what are you going to tell her then? Say that you must’ve made a mistake? Say that you must’ve been wrong about Proust all along? Could you look this woman in the eye again and lie like that?
When Doyle leaves, he uses the rain as an excuse to jog back to the car, and then he wastes no time in driving away from that house.
For a while after he’s gone, she does nothing. Time becomes immaterial again. She sits and she broods. She thinks on what Doyle has told her. She has some answers now. Not many, but some. She marvels at how it is possible for one man – Proust – to cause such devastation. To rip a family he doesn’t even know into shreds. Astonishing.
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 28
