Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  He was repeating the same tell-me-it’s-not-true justifications I’d used myself, his mind refusing to accept the unacceptable.

  ‘Yes. I wish I wasn’t Richard. And I don’t have any answers for you yet. I need to know what she was working on.’

  He stared at me for a moment, understandably thrown by the question. Eventually the cogs started to turn, and he replied.

  ‘Ummm… for me, a piece on childhood obesity that’s due to run tomorrow. For you? Something she wouldn’t talk about. But she kept it all, as usual, backed up in the office. She always did that with her big secret stuff. There’ll be a password, but you’ll probably know it. I’ll find it for you. Jayne… how?’

  I chickened out. I just couldn’t do it – sit here in this crowded pub, the smell of beer wafting up my nostrils, and tell a heartbroken man that his on-off-always-back-on girlfriend bled to death after having her throat cut.

  Dan stepped in. He was getting good at that.

  ‘We’ll know more tomorrow,’ he said, a protective hand going to the small of my back, holding me as if I was about to fall. Which maybe I was.

  Richard stared at us both, a deep frown creasing his forehead, spilled beer dripping from the bar and onto his legs, completely unnoticed.

  After a few moments he nodded, stood to his feet, bizarrely steadier now than he was when I first walked in. He headed for the karaoke machine, grabbed the microphone out of a middle-aged blonde’s hands. I had my police training to fall back on to help me cope, and he had his own.

  ‘Everyone!’ he said. ‘Hush up! Tish Landry is dead. She’s been murdered. I don’t know any more than that, but when I do, you’ll all be told. For now, we treat this like a story – and we find out everything we can, as quick as we can.’

  The room went silent, apart from a low background hum from the karaoke gear. Party interrupted. I heard one woman sob at the back of the room. Before anyone could ask any questions, he continued.

  ‘Now, Kat, Steve, Maureen – back to the office with me. We have work to do. This isn’t the way she’d have wanted to get on the front page, but it’s the best we can do. The rest of you – carry on drinking. Because that is something she’d have wanted.’

  The people he’d called for tumbled out of the crowd and followed him to the door. Dead-faced, serious, pissed-up people, heading back to an office that Tish had loved to write her final words. Richard cast me one final look before he left, his face dark and haunted but determined. I managed a small wave.

  Dan still had his hand on my back, turned me round to look at him.

  ‘Where now?’ he said. ‘You need to rest. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Your place? Father Kerrigan’s?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘Take me home. To my mum and dad.’

  Chapter 41

  I woke up at 3 a.m., in a single bed in my old room. It might not have the My Little Pony duvet any more, but it was still my room. The yellow haze from the street light outside creeping through the curtains at the same angle it always did; the same bright red numbers on the digital alarm clock glowing next to me. Everything was the same, and for a moment I felt comfortable and safe and protected.

  Except everything wasn’t the same. Everything was very, very different. I threw the bedclothes off, stumbled down the narrow stairs and into the kitchen. I knew I wouldn’t sleep again, so I needed coffee. Probably food as well, from the way my stomach was rumbling out a salsa, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

  I crept through to the living room, expecting darkness and quiet. Instead I found Dan, lying on the too-small sofa, his feet hanging over one end. He had a blanket thrown over him and his head was propped up on the zebra-skin faux-velvet cushions my mother had brought home from the market. His tobacco pouch lay by his side, and his eyes were wide open.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ I asked.

  ‘Because you are,’ he answered, sitting up. The blanket fell down, pooled in his lap. He was wearing one of my dad’s old T-shirts, which was about two sizes too small and stretched across his chest so tight he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a gay bar in Berlin.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked. He nodded, sat up straight so I could join him on the couch.

  I scurried around in the kitchen, smiling as I heard my dad’s snores echoing from the room upstairs. My mum has slept with ear plugs in for the last forty years. She always jokes she wants to be buried with a diamanté-studded pair to mark her dedication to a man who makes more noise asleep than awake.

  I sat down next to Dan, found myself immediately snuggled closer to his body, his arm around my shoulders and my head resting against him. I wasn’t going to complain.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked, stroking my hair.

  ‘Weird,’ I replied. ‘Not as upset as I should be. Instead, I keep thinking about things I need to do, stuff I need to sort out, when I know I should be weeping and wailing and beating my chest. Which in turn is making me feel guilty about what a horribly shallow person I am.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal,’ he replied. ‘Brains are clever things – when there’s too much going on for them to handle, they shut down, focus on something else. When you lose someone you love, it takes a while for the reality to set in.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He was undoubtedly more of an expert on grief than I was, both personally and professionally. And in all honesty, I welcomed the respite. The pain I’d felt when I found out about Tish had been so hot, so sharp, that I didn’t think I could survive another dose of it. I’d die myself.

  ‘I need to think about how Tish was killed,’ I said. ‘Was it connected to Hart House and the Deerbornes? Was it connected to something else she was working on? I don’t buy a random attack. It’s too much of a coincidence. I know her stuff was taken, but that means nothing. A mugger wouldn’t have done that to her. If they went through her pockets and took her bag, that means they were either trying to make it look like a robbery, or they wanted to search her things. I don’t doubt for a minute that they tried to get into her flat, and if Alec hadn’t got people round there so fast, they’d have made it… shit. Mr Bean. I hope he’s okay.’

  ‘He is. Alec called earlier. He’s living it up at Ball Street, apparently, being looked after by the canteen staff and eating a lot of fried bacon.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get him later. He’ll have to come and live with me, or Richard. Tash has allergies, which I think is part of the reason Tish got him in the first place, the cow. What do you think?’

  ‘About Mr Bean?’

  ‘No. About the murder. Was that the work of any demon you’ve ever seen?’

  He thought about it for a few moments, sipping his coffee.

  ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You know already how easily they can take over a human body. You’ve seen what it made Sophie do, what it probably made Joy do. Just because we were off track with Geneva doesn’t mean that’s not what happened here.’

  ‘Would a demon bother taking her bag? Surely it wouldn’t have any interest in a cash card or her lipstick?’

  ‘Depends on its motives. The camera, for example… or just screwing with our minds.’

  ‘A definite maybe, then?’

  He nodded carefully, obviously seeing something racing across my face he wasn’t too keen on.

  ‘That’s enough for me,’ I said. ‘We have to go in, to Hart House, and do it. We were planning to anyway. It needs to be done, and I… need to do something. Alec is good. He’ll work this, and work it hard. He’ll let me in to some extent, but we all know there might not be an arrest at the end of it. Which means it’s up to us. Justin’s ready, he keeps saying so. We’ll call Will, get it set.’

  I reached forward for my phone, and he snatched it out of my reach.

  ‘Not now, Jayne,’ he said gently. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Let them sleep. We’ll tell them tomorrow.’

  ‘But I have to go and see Tish’s family tomorrow. And get some stuff off
Richard. And rescue Mr Bean before he gets food poisoning.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Not now. Not tonight. Tonight, we sit here, together, in your parents’ house. You might not sleep, but you will rest. Whether you like it or not.’

  I heard a sniffle in the background. Looked over the back of the sofa to see my mum, hair pinned up, face pale and drawn. I hadn’t seen her cry since we’d watched ‘Titanic’ together last Christmas, but I could tell she had tonight.

  ‘He’s right, love,’ she said, coming over to pat my hand. ‘Listen to Dan. You need to rest now.’

  I relaxed back against him. Not because I agreed with them. But because I didn’t have the energy to fight them both at once.

  Chapter 42

  Two nights later Tish’s unofficial wake was held at the Swordsman. Her ‘real’ funeral wouldn’t take place for several more days. Not only to give her family time to organise it, but because the body hadn’t been released from the coroner yet. They’d be taking samples and doing tests and chopping her open, looking for clues as to who killed her. I knew far too much about the whole process to allow it much thought. It wasn’t Tish on Corky’s slab, I told myself. Just the shell she lived in.

  I didn’t imagine the memorial her parents came up with would feature life-size cardboard figures of Edward Cullen looking brooding. Or blow-up dolls. Or the gallery of photos of Tish, from all her years at the paper, pinned to green-felt display boards. Tish sky-diving. Tish in a bikini on Crosby beach in winter. Tish asking Cherie Blair where she got her spike-heeled boots from. But this felt real – a packed room full of her friends, music, dancing, and drinking. Vast, industrial-level quantities of drinking.

  We’d broken the news to the others the day after Tish’s death. Betty cried. Justin went to the bathroom. Will choked, his fingers shaking as he loosened his tie, asking if there was anything he could do… but this was a problem that money couldn’t fix, and unless he fancied providing a luxury penthouse home to an incontinent chihuahua, there was nothing I could suggest to make him feel better.

  Instead I pushed forward with the plans for the exorcism at Hart House. Will was shocked, and still looking at me like I was displaying a second head. I don’t think he expected me to adopt keep calm and carry on as my motto at a time like this. I think I’d upset him somehow, by not reacting in a more fragrant manner – swooning, tears, incoherent grief. I knew he was right, in a way. But for now, it was easier to be a heartless bitch, running on adrenaline. I was too busy to give into it. I had demons to fight.

  Despite my pleas, arguments and downright emotional blackmail, Betty had stayed firm. Kind, but unmoving – Justin needed a few more days of rest. I could tell from his gritted teeth that he didn’t agree, but Betty was the boss.

  Eventually we’d compromised – not waiting the week she’d wanted, and not going in the day after Tish died. Instead, we were doing it tomorrow. Which, I thought as I carried three pints back to the table, might mean we did it with a hangover. Well, Tish’s voice said in the back of my mind, so what? We do some of our best work after a bottle of rosé, darling.

  While that probably held true if your work involved reviewing a Pussycat Dolls concert, I wasn’t totally convinced it applied to banishing evil from the human plane of existence. Too late to worry about that now, I thought, tipping my head back for the next beer. Richard had organised this, and we could hardly say ‘no, sorry, that’s frightfully inconvenient – would you mind rescheduling for after our exorcism?’

  Alec called in, updated me on the fact he’d spent several days learning nothing at all, and left – he knew the presence of the man investigating her violent death wasn’t exactly going to make Tish’s party go with a swing. Which it was, even without the guest of honour. But it was good of him, and I appreciated it. Once I returned from my state of altered consciousness, I’d repay him some way.

  Richard made a speech. Her editor made a speech. I have the nagging suspicion that even I made a speech. And that was my last coherent memory, until I woke up the next morning. At home, in my own bed, which is always a good thing. With someone’s leg thrown over my hip, which is sometimes a good thing.

  I ignored the small dwarves who were busily mining for gold in my aching head, and edged my hand down to poke a testing a finger at the leg in question. Human. Yes. Male. Very. A hand worked its way around my waist, giving me a gentle squeeze, and I felt warm breath tickling my ear. I wiggled my bottom slightly, trying to find out if I was lying there with a human male who also happened to be naked… no. Boxers. Phew.

  ‘Stop that,’ a voice behind my head said. Dan. Father frigging Dan. Shit. I tensed slightly, suddenly taking less notice of his clothes than mine. Or I would have done, had I been wearing any.

  ‘Erm… stop what?’ I asked, trying to ignore the butterflies as his fingers spread over the skin of my stomach.

  ‘Stop wriggling around. I’m only flesh and blood, you know.’

  Ah. Yes. Indeed he was, and I could feel the weighty evidence of one particular part of his flesh and blood pressed firmly into my lower back. As impressive an example of morning glory as I’d ever come across, in fact.

  His lips were next to my neck, and his body was wrapped around mine. The thigh over my hip was heavy and long and stopping me from going anywhere fast. Not that I wanted to. Moving away from all that warm skin was the last thing on my mind. I realised I was holding my breath, and sighed it out. I had no idea what had happened the night before, but trusted in both Dan’s sense of honour and the fact that he was still wearing undies. I should probably drag myself out of bed and ingest Paracetamol, immediately.

  Instead, I did a bit more wriggling. Because I’m a very naughty girl. And because having a large, hard body crushed up against mine always makes me go a bit giddy in the morning. He groaned slightly, and I felt the sound of his need whisper past me. His fingers moved slowly across, over my tummy, up my torso, inching their way languidly and deliciously until they came to rest just under my breasts. I placed my hand over his and urged him on. They were fairly begging to be touched by now, and from the action going on in the boxer department, it wasn’t just me feeling the heat. I leaned back further, the hard plane of his chest behind me, his lips nuzzling the tender spot where my neck met my shoulders.

  His hand moved up, fingers delicately tracing the outline of one nipple until it was taut and sensitive, and I let out a noise that may have resembled something like ‘eek’. He cupped the whole breast in his hand, rubbing its peak with his thumb, all the time kissing the soft flesh of my neck.

  I gripped his thigh, a hard, long line of muscle, pulling him even closer into me. If it hadn’t been for those boxers… well, let’s just say my granny might have been disappointed on the virginity front, after all.

  ‘We should stop…’ he murmured, as his fingers moved to the other breast, stroking and teasing and squeezing until it was just the right side of pain.

  ‘I know,’ I said, my voice low and fuzzy, ‘but I don’t want to.’

  He pulled away slightly, and I was about to protest like a petulant child, until he rolled me onto my back and climbed on top of me. Jeez. He really was a magnificent sight; all firm ridges and cut muscle, biceps flexed as he placed a hand either side of my face and leaned down to kiss me.

  If there’d been some kind of invisible line where his control ended and desire started, I’d definitely pushed him past it. The kiss was deep and fierce and hot as the Tropic of Capricorn. I wrapped my legs around his back, drawing him as close as it was possible for two separate bodies to be. I ran my hands down from the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the ripple of bunched muscles in his back as he moved, my fingers reaching the waistband of those now very annoying boxer shorts and starting to tug downwards. He lifted slightly, giving me easier access, and I’d just managed to get them halfway over that improbably perfect butt when the doorbell rang.

  Obviously, I ignored it, and carried on. So did he. Then it rang again. And again. And a
-bloody-gain.

  ‘Fuck!’ he shouted, as annoyed as I’d ever heard him, rolling off me. My body crumpled with disappointment as all the skin and fingers and teeth and tongue that had been making me feel so damn good were suddenly snatched away. Yeah. Fuck. That about summed it up.

  Chapter 43

  He was lying on his back on top of the bedclothes, staring at the ceiling. His boxers were half on, half off, the top of his very merry cock popping up to say hello. It was actually quite funny, and I was sure if I gave him a minute or ten, he might see it that way too.

  The bell rang again. I got up, wrapped a sheet around me, and walked to the door. Well, kind of staggered in all honesty – I guess this was where the phrase ‘weak at the knees’ came from, even if it was other body parts that were complaining more urgently at the moment.

  I tripped down the hall, looked through the peephole. Richard. Not looking particularly divine this morning at all.

  My tummy did a somersault, followed by a plunge towards the floor. I’d forgotten. I’d woken up in bed with a hunky bloke with a hard-on, and for a few minutes, actually forgotten all about Tish. My best mate. My dead best mate. How could I?

  I tightened the sheet around myself and opened the door. Richard looked like dog poo, dark circles under his eyes and hair sticking up like someone was holding a static-ridden balloon over his head. Grief and alcohol – double whammy. He looked me up and down and managed to crack a smile. I thought it might crack his face as well, he looked so tired.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been keeping your end up,’ he said. ‘Or Dan’s at least.’

  I felt tears swim into my eyes, and he hastily added: ‘Not that that’s a problem. Go for it. You know she’d have wanted you to. Anyway… I’ll get out of your hair. I finally found this in the office, though.’