Human Remains

by Elizabeth Haynes

  Audrey gasped, then laughed breathlessly. She sounded hysterical.

  “Christ,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d hit him that hard.”

  She was sobbing now, slumped back on her heels, and I stepped over Colin and went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder to provide some comfort. Then I sat down next to her and we held each other, both of us crying.

  “We need to get out,” I said. “Can you walk, do you think?” I tried to get her to her feet, her legs wobbling underneath her.

  Using the wall for support, I half dragged her up the steps and into the daylight outside the pantry. There was a man outside the back door, a member of a search team by the look of the uniform. When he caught sight of us his eyes widened and he shouted something I didn’t catch, and then more people came and they took Audrey from me and someone I didn’t recognize started asking me questions.

  I said, “He’s down there,” and then I couldn’t say anything else because I was sobbing with it, the retrospective fear. What had I done? What had I even thought I was doing, coming here with him in his car?

  They walked me around through the weeds to the front of the house. There was an ambulance and several police cars and unmarked cars, as well as Colin’s Fiesta, parked outside the door. And, right at the back, Sam’s car.

  As I went toward him I tripped over a loose slab on the pathway and fell forward onto my hands and knees. Strong arms on either side lifted me up as I said, “Sorry, sorry,” as though it were my fault, and my knees were scraped and bleeding. I wiped the grit off my hands onto my cardigan, still damp from the rain earlier. My palms were stinging.

  “Are you all right?” Sam said, when he got to me. He took my hands in his, looked at the palms and blew on them gently.

  “I just tripped,” I said.

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . God, I’m just so glad to see you.”

  He put his arm around me and we moved into an awkward hug. He was patting my shoulder. I stepped away, conscious of my grubby clothes, my still-damp cardigan covered in dirt and dust.

  “I tried to get here as fast as I could,” he said. “I lost you on the main road. And then I got hold of DI Frost and after that it all happened really quickly.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “He was freaking out. I’ve never heard him like that. He’d just read your e-mail. When I told him you’d gone off with Friedland it sounded like all hell broke loose.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s on his way. Look, can you please not do anything like this in future? I’ve never been so damned scared in my whole life.”

  “You weren’t the one in the car with him,” I said. “Why the hell were you scared?”

  “I thought he was going to kill you.”

  I thought about the body on the sofa, wondered how long she had been there. How long Colin had been visiting her.

  “There’s another body,” I said. “I think she’s been in there a long time. He called her Maggie.”

  Annabel

  “I don’t want to make things difficult for you, Annabel, in the circumstances—but you do realize you put the whole investigation at risk?”

  I looked at Paul Moscrop’s fingers, both of his hands flat on the desk in front of him, spread out as though he were trying some sort of supernatural table-tipping experiment.

  The table didn’t move.

  “That wasn’t my intention, sir.”

  “Not to mention your own life.”

  “Well, I thought you’d have had him under surveillance.”

  He had no reply to that, of course. The teams had, as Jenna Jackson had told me, been deployed to another division.

  “Of course, without your analysis we might not have found Audrey Madison in time. But nevertheless, you are not a trained investigator. You’re not even working in Major Crime. You put yourself in a position of grave danger and I can’t even begin to think of what might have happened if it had all gone off the rails.”

  “I know.”

  I looked up briefly at Bill, who was pretending to read the top sheet of the folder open on the desk in front of him. His cheeks were red, whether from embarrassment or the warmth of the room it was difficult to tell. It being early December, the heat in all the police stations across the county was at full blast. It was stifling in here.

  “The CPS have been trying to decide whether what you did constitutes entrapment.”

  “You can tell them I went temporarily insane if it will help,” I offered.

  “I don’t really want to be here, you know, Annabel,” he said then. “If it were up to me I’d be giving you a medal. What you did was incredibly brave, and very, very stupid.”

  “I won’t do it again,” I said.

  “Good.” He even managed a tiny hint of a smile. “I think we should finish there. Everyone in agreement?”

  Bill looked relieved and nodded; the woman from HR who had a face that could turn milk gave me a glare but nodded her assent to the DCI. The union rep looked pleased with herself. I was hoping that was a good sign.

  Sam was waiting for me in the café where we’d had our first meeting, which felt like years ago but was only just over two months.

  “How did it go?” he asked, when I put my bag and coat over the chair opposite him.

  “It was all over in twenty minutes. I thought it would be longer than that.”

  “What did they say?”

  I kept him in suspense for a little while longer while I went to the counter and got us both another drink.

  “They’re going to phone me when they’ve reached their decision,” I said, sitting down.

  “They should be giving you some sort of good citizen award, Annabel, not putting you through all this stress. How’s Audrey?”

  Audrey was staying at her parents’ house for the time being. To my surprise, as well as hers, probably, we’d become quite good friends. Physically she had recovered well, but she was not sleeping and was suffering from regular panic attacks. Not having to worry about going to work while I was suspended pending the disciplinary investigation, I had been visiting her every day. Sam had come with me once or twice, but we could both tell that Audrey wasn’t comfortable with him being there.

  “Vaughn phoned while I was there.”

  “Oh?”

  “He wants to go and see her. She’s not having any of it.”

  “I guess she probably blames him, somehow. Poor guy. Bad at choosing his friends.”

  This morning she had been dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt that was too big for her, but it was still a step up from the grubby bathrobe. She’d washed her hair.

  “Wow,” I’d said. “We going out somewhere?”

  She’d looked briefly panic-stricken, and then she’d smiled at me. When she smiled, she looked so different. She was the sort of girl who would have been way too cool to associate with me at school, or at work, for that matter. She would have been friends with Kate and the rest of them, and would never have paid me any attention. When I thought about that, I’d asked her mother if she really thought Audrey wanted me to come over and visit, or if she just felt sorry for me.

  “Oh, no,” she’d replied. “Please don’t stop coming. Audrey’s completely in awe of you. She says you’re the bravest and strongest person she knows.”

  “Audrey’s not too bad,” I said to Sam. “She was even dressed today. I’m hoping she’ll want to come out of the house soon.”

  “That’s good news. Has she said any more about what happened?”

  She had told me some of it. I knew Sam wouldn’t print anything about it unless he had permission to do so, although he was desperate to do it. It was almost as though he wanted to take his revenge on Colin using the best method at his disposal. But he was silenced by his own moral code, and by the fact that printing the details of Audrey’s captivity would prejudice a future trial.

  “She’s getting there. She needs time.”

  He had tried to do wha
tever it was he did to me—hypnotize her, brainwash her, whatever it was—but it hadn’t worked. He’d had no mental control over her and so he had kept her locked up. She’d felt as though she were being disposed of. She had been afraid of closing her eyes and sleeping, in case she woke up to find him there. Or in case she never woke up at all.

  Sam drank his cappuccino, recognizing that I wasn’t going to say more. “So, when they call you, is that the end of it?”

  “I guess so. Either I get the boot, or I go back to work.”

  “Well, at least it means you can come on vacation with us. If you’re back at work tomorrow you can put in a leave request, can’t you?”

  He’d been pressing me on this for the last two weeks. They were going to stay in a cottage in Devon for a week over the Christmas period, booked last year. Only two bedrooms, but Sam was going to sleep on the sofa if I came along. I needed a vacation, Irene insisted.

  What I need is to go home and start sorting out my life, I thought.

  “I really don’t think I can come with you,” I said. “It’s a very kind offer. But I have so much I need to do. And I can’t leave Audrey.”

  “As you said, she’s getting better. One week won’t make a difference. Everything you need to do will all still be here when we get back.”

  We needed to have that conversation, the one that had been hanging over us ever since he’d arranged my move into the spare room. I’d been putting it off and hoping the problem would go away, but it was getting worse.

  “Sam,” I began. God, this was awkward. “I don’t really understand. I just don’t know . . . what it is you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything,” he said cheerfully.

  “I mean—I don’t know. We’re friends, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Nothing else? I just—it feels weird that I moved into your house. And now going on vacation together. I’m no good at all this stuff; I never really understand people’s motives. And I’d really hate for you to be . . . you know . . . expecting . . .”

  “I’m not expecting anything,” he said. “And it’s not weird that you moved in. We invited you, didn’t we? It’s what friends do—help each other out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I was feeling hot all of a sudden. The fact that he was so disarmingly relaxed was making it far more difficult even than I’d imagined it might be.

  “You don’t need to be,” he said.

  “Are you gay?” I said quickly. “I mean, not that you have to be gay not to be interested in me, far from it. I mean why would you be interested in me, after all? I’m twelve years older than you at least and . . . well . . .” I looked down at myself as though that made the point.

  Sam’s gulp of coffee had gone down the wrong way. When he recovered, he stared into the dregs of his cup intently, as though the answer lay in the foam.

  “I’m not gay.” He was smiling, trying not to laugh. “I’m just happily single right now. Is that OK?”

  There was a momentary pause. I sipped my tea. This wasn’t going very well. I was just working up to another apology when he surprised me.

  “It’s not that you’re not attractive. I think you’re lovely, and of course you’re clever and very interesting to talk to, even though you don’t seem to realize it. But . . .” He took a deep breath in. “Can we just be friends?”

  “Yes,” I said, with relief. “That sounds great.”

  “And that means we can go on vacation?”

  I couldn’t very well refuse now, could I? “All right, then,” I said. “As friends.”

  In my bag, my phone started ringing. The caller display showed a withheld number—which meant it was probably police HQ. I took a deep breath and answered it.

  Colin

  I’ve always taken pride in making the best of any given situation. Even if I do whine and complain from time to time, I see that as being a healthy expression of indignation, pertaining to any infringement of my basic rights.

  In this case, my right to liberty.

  The solicitor (invariably they seem to send the junior out to me, a young man in an ill-fitting suit with a pustular outbreak around his hairline—but he seems efficient enough) has been unable to tell me exactly how long I might be here. They have me on remand, charged with abduction and assault, which is horrific enough but not beyond the limits of my endurance. I have achieved a certain notoriety already, and, as for those of my fellow jailbirds who choose not to take me seriously, I only have to look at them in a certain way and mumble a few incantations and they back off immediately. It’s really rather comical, and it passes the time.

  The downside to my notoriety is that this is the third remand center I’ve been shipped to since my second arrest. Every time a suicide takes place in whatever institution I’m in, they decide I must be responsible for it and move me elsewhere.

  It’s utterly ridiculous, of course, as I’ve told them many times. I have no interest in death itself. Why would I even bother? Being moved around like this is a hideous inconvenience. I don’t know why they don’t just put me in some sort of solitary confinement; that would be infinitely more agreeable to me. I might suggest it if I get moved again.

  I am also getting letters from people in the most appalling circumstances—people paralyzed following accidents, suffering terminal illnesses, those who want to “die with dignity” but can’t afford to take themselves off to Switzerland and don’t want their loved ones to take any blame.

  I can’t help them, of course. Well, perhaps I could—and in response to one particularly touching letter I did reply suggesting they research voluntary refusal of food on the Internet—but why the hell should I? There is nothing for me following their death, after all. There will be no process to observe.

  I’ve given up reading the newspapers. I was in an almost constant state of outrage. The debate about euthanasia that has been provoked by my activity was quite intriguing to follow, but once the “bereaved families” formed themselves into a mutual support group I had to stop reading. Bereaved families, indeed. Where were they when their so-called loved ones were suffering? What support did they provide to the lonely, the depressed, the suicidal? None at all. And now they want some sort of justice. I despair of this country and the depths to which it has sunk.

  As part of the preparation for the court case, they arranged for a psychological evaluation of me, which was most entertaining. In fact it remains so because the process seems to be never ending. Once one of them has finished with me, they send someone else, so I am clearly an intriguing case for them. Are they trying to decide if I’m sane?

  After a particularly interesting discussion with one of the psychologists regarding guilt and blame, I wrote to Audrey to apologize formally. What happened with her was a dreadful misunderstanding, of course, and I do regret it deeply. Whether they passed the letter on is a matter for them.

  Vaughn, on the other hand, can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I have no desire for further communication with him.

  I sometimes think about all the others—and there are still more—who remain in peace at home. I think about what might be left. I have wondered about Leah, too—where she might be now and whether she has continued down her path without my encouragement. I had thought her still unsure, but who knows what has happened to her and her unfortunate married lover since then. If she has turned back from that particular underworld, followed the path behind her apathetic Orpheus back to life, it may be that she has memories of our meeting and may come forward. Would she speak for me, I wonder, or against me? It all depends on her frame of mind. They all know I did nothing of harm to them. They all know I was on their side.

  There has been no mention of the images and my accompanying notes, and I presume from this that they remain safely hidden. I have no doubt that if they came to light it would prejudice my trial, if it ever takes place, even though they show nothing other than decay. There is no further crime they could charge me with, but if t
he prosecution showed the pictures in court I can imagine the jury would take it the wrong way. Without them, it may be possible that this whole sorry farce will result in a very brief custodial sentence, probably a suspended one in recognition of time spent on remand.

  I could be free quite soon, in fact.

  I’ve asked for books to be brought from home, but instead they limit me to the library here, which is insufficient for my needs but, as they say, better than nothing. However, unfortunately several of the requests I have submitted have been declined without reason. It’s enough to make me wish they would hurry up and convict me of whatever it is they think I’ve done, just so that I can get back to studying something more interesting than the state of the cafeteria assistants’ fingernails and the endless pile of letters I’ve been receiving, including some from women who suddenly, and ironically, seem to find me irresistible. I reread these for my own amusement, since there is precious little else to do. Sometimes I correct the spelling and grammar—“you didn’t need to do them things you done, you could of had me” (dear God, I ask you)—and sometimes I spend a while picturing the females who take the time to write to me. It’s easier, of course, when they have enclosed a photograph. One last week was even wearing a bikini, but that was unfortunate and with the best will in the world the sight of her was not enough to provoke even a flicker of arousal.

  There is one, however . . .

  Her name is Nancy Heppelthwaite and she is twenty-nine years old. She studied at Oxford and enjoys art, music, and literature. She paints. She dances, sometimes, but she has never met anyone she likes to dance with. She has yet to send a photograph even though I have replied and requested one—but in a way I’m glad she remains faceless, as I can impose any number of wonderful thoughts upon her, in those restless hours after lights-out when all you can hear are the shouts and moans of the insane ones who shouldn’t be on remand at all, the sobs of the lonely and the homesick, and the grunts of all the others like me who fill the dark hours with harmless acts of self-abuse. They use posters ripped from the pages of Nuts and FHM, or disturbing pictures of their wives in their underwear. I use Nancy’s letter.