Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘We all make enemies.’

  It’s not an answer.

  ‘Any skeletons?’

  Her voice hardens. ‘He was a good copper. Straight.’

  A different SOCO appears at the base of the stairs. Calls to Preston. ‘I found a stash of porn in the shed. You want me to bag it?’

  ‘What sort of porn?’ asks the pathologist.

  ‘Magazines, DVDs ...’

  ‘Anything unusual?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Rape scenes, violent fantasies, anything involving children.’

  Cray stiffens in protest. Already she wants to safeguard Ray Hegarty’s reputation. A murder investigation is a circus of possibilities, where the spotlight is so fierce it reveals every blemish and flaw. The victim is also placed on trial and sometimes they die all over again in the courtroom - portrayed as being somehow responsible and slandered as viciously as they were stabbed or strangled or shot.

  Cray won’t let that happen. Not this time. Not to her friend.

  Outside, the crowd has thinned out. A few remaining teenagers are loitering on the far side of the lane, kicking aimlessly at dead leaves. A young man swigs from a lurid can. His dark hair has blond streaks cut in a ragged curtain that doesn’t so much frame his face as provide him somewhere to hide.

  My eyes rush to judgement. He looks familiar. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve seen too much of the world and now it is starting to repeat itself.

  Then I remember where I’ve seen him. Sienna Hegarty kissed his cheek and climbed into his car. The youth is still staring at me. A fringe of hair is flicked from his eyes. He turns away and begins walking quickly.

  I yell out to him and he runs, jinking between bystanders and parked cars.

  Cray is still inside with Preston. I yell to the uniforms guarding the gate but none of them reacts quickly enough to stop him. The kid is forty yards ahead. Whippet thin, underfed, built for speed. I lose sight of him as he passes under the arch of the old railway viaduct. By the time I reach the same corner he’s disappeared completely.

  I notice a farm track on the left. It’s the only possibility. Turning up the twin ruts, I keep running, feeling a weight hang around my heart and lungs. Walking hasn’t made me any fitter.

  Ahead, a car engine starts, rumbling through a broken muffler. The Peugeot accelerates out of a muddy farmyard, the back tyres snaking in the slick puddles. He’s not slowing down. I’m caught on the grassy ridge between the twin tracks with hedges on either side.

  I raise my hand. He doesn’t stop. At the last moment I throw myself to one side, curling my legs away from the spinning wheels.

  Lying on my back, I take a deep breath and gaze at a bank of moving clouds, listening to my heart thudding.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asks a voice in a slow West Country drawl. It’s Alasdair Riordan, the farmer I saw earlier.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Resting.’

  He nods, satisfied, and turns back to his tractor.

  ‘Did you see that car?’ I ask.

  Alasdair pulls off his woollen hat and scratches an itch on his scalp. ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘It almost ran me down.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to get the number?’

  He replaces his hat and shakes his head. ‘I’m not too good with numbers.’

  A moment later two uniforms appear. Ronnie Cray is behind them, sweating profusely.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Who was in the car?’

  ‘Sienna’s boyfriend.’

  She registers the information like a fevered prospector. ‘You should have left it to us.’

  ‘He ran. I chased.’

  ‘What are you - a dog?’ She looks at her muddy shoes. ‘I hope that kid knows how to polish.’

  My mobile is vibrating.

  ‘What happened to Sienna?’ blurts Charlie, close to tears.

  ‘She’s in hospital.’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s in shock, but I think she’ll be fine.’

  I can hear playground noises in the background.

  ‘They’re saying that Mr Hegarty is dead. They’re saying that Sienna killed him.’

  ‘We don’t know what happened.’

  ‘But he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I go and see Sienna?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Can I call her?’

  ‘No.’

  She sniffles and blows her nose. Charlie rarely cries. She bottles things up. Holds them inside. Ever since the kidnapping, I have watched her closely, anticipating problems. Is she eating and sleeping properly? Is she socialising normally? Sometimes I dare to hope the worst is over, but then the nightmares will return and she cries out, clawing the air, snatching at unseen things in the darkness. Stumbling to her room, I kneel beside her bed, stroking her forehead and talking softly. Her eyes will open, looking vacuously into space as though a terrible revelation about life has been whispered in her ear.

  This was my fault, my doing, and I would flay the skin from my back if I could rewind the clock and protect her next time. I don’t want to assuage the guilt. I want to change her memories.

  6

  Midday. Wednesday. I’m walking the same brightly lit hospital corridors, smelling the disinfectant and floor polish. Sienna’s room is still under guard. Detective Sergeant Colin ‘Monk’ Abbott, a black Londoner, is dozing on a chair with his legs outstretched and head resting on the wall. He must have pulled an all-nighter. Mrs Monk won’t be happy. I met her once at a DIY store in Bristol. She was half Monk’s size, trying to control three young boys who were treating their father like a climbing frame.

  Monk rocks to his feet. He could touch the ceiling.

  ‘She awake?’ asks Cray.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘She said anything?’

  ‘No.’

  A doctor comes out of the room, his white coat unbuttoned and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He’s young, no more than twenty-six, lean like a greyhound, running on machine coffee and the adrenalin of residency.

  ‘How is she?’ asks the DCI.

  ‘Physically, she’s fine.’

  ‘Is there a “but” in there somewhere?’

  ‘Her hearing and speech seem to be functioning normally and she’s responding to visual stimuli, but her heart rate keeps surging.’

  ‘She’s traumatised,’ I say.

  The doctor nods and scratches his initials on a form. ‘Quite possibly, but the neurologist wants to rule out brain damage. He’s ordered a CT scan.’

  Cray opens the door. Helen Hegarty is sitting beside Sienna’s bed, holding her daughter’s hand. Tight-lipped and tired, she’s dressed in her nurse’s uniform with the pockets of her cardigan stretched out of shape. Her dyed hair is falling out of a kind of topknot and occasionally she reaches up and pats it with her hand.

  The detective motions her outside. Helen kisses Sienna’s forehead, telling her she won’t be long.

  ‘Mrs Hegarty, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cray. We’ve met once or twice before.’

  ‘You were at Ray’s farewell.’

  The DCI nods gently. ‘That’s right. I’m investigating his death.’

  The statement seems to wash over Helen.

  ‘Ray was a good friend. A fine detective.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Has Sienna said anything?’

  Helen shakes her head. ‘She woke about an hour ago. Her eyes opened and she said hello, but then she fell asleep again.’

  ‘That’s a good sign,’ I tell her. ‘She’s probably just trying to process things.’

  Helen glances at me. ‘You’re Charlie’s dad.’

  ‘Yes. Call me Joe.’

  Helen wipes her hands before she shakes mine. ‘Thank you for finding her.’

  Ronnie Cray motions her to a chair. Helen sits, unsur
e of where to put her hands. She presses them in her lap. The detective sits next to her, turning her body so they face each other, knees almost touching.

  ‘What time did you leave the house last night, Mrs Hegarty?’

  ‘At about a twenty to six.’

  ‘How long have you worked at St Martin’s?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Where was Sienna when you went to work?’

  ‘On her way home. There was a rehearsal at school. She’s in the musical.’ Helen looks up at me. ‘Joe was bringing her home.’

  Cray turns to me for an explanation.

  ‘But Sienna called you,’ I say to Helen. ‘She told you that her boyfriend was going to bring her home. I heard her talking to you.’

  A sad, crumpled smile creases her face. ‘She can be such a devil.’ As soon as the words leave her lips she regrets them. ‘I don’t mean . . . Sienna wouldn’t do anything to hurt . . . she loved her dad.’

  Cray interrupts her. ‘What do you know about this boyfriend?’

  ‘I haven’t met him, but I know he’s older and he drives a car.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Danny Gardiner.’

  ‘How long has Sienna been seeing him?’

  ‘About eight months.’ Helen glances at me, looking for understanding. ‘I tried to put a stop to it because Sienna was only thirteen, but she was always sneaking out to see him. You can’t lock them up, can you? Sometimes I wish I could.’

  ‘How did Sienna meet him?’

  ‘Danny went to school with Lance - my son.’

  ‘Does he live locally?’

  ‘Somewhere in Bath. His mother works as a tour guide.’

  The DCI presses her chin to her chest, choosing her words carefully. ‘Do you know what time Sienna got home last night?’

  Helen shakes her head.

  ‘And you weren’t expecting your husband back?’

  ‘Not until Friday.’

  There is a pause. I’m watching Helen’s body language, looking for signs of outright deception or omission. Shy and unadorned, she strikes me as a hard worker, private and uncomplicated. She must have been a beauty in her youth, but lack of sleep and a poor diet have spun the clock forward.

  A few times I’ve seen her walking through the village dressed in clothes that might have been bought twenty years ago. She reminded me of a factory worker during the war, when women took over men’s jobs, wearing loose dungarees and oversized cardigans. It made her about as sexy as an older sister, but she went about her business with a quiet acceptance.

  ‘Who knew your husband was coming home last night?’ asks Cray.

  She shrugs.

  ‘Sienna?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How did they get on - Ray and Sienna?’

  ‘Fine. They had their moments.’

  ‘Moments?’

  Helen holds the cuffs of her cardigan in her closed fists. ‘You try to set boundaries. Kids try to cross them.’

  ‘Did your husband ever touch Sienna inappropriately? Did he ever give you any cause for concern?’

  Helen’s face goes through a transformation from concern to amazement and then anger.

  ‘Not my Ray! He wouldn’t do something like that.’

  Her features have become tighter and smaller, rushing to the centre of her face.

  ‘How dare you suggest - how dare you think . . . He hated nonces. He put them away.’

  Cray reaches out and touches Helen’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. It’s something I had to ask.’

  I know exactly what the DCI has done. Sienna is an obvious suspect who has yet to be interviewed. With one simple question, Cray has undermined one of her possible defences - sexual abuse. Helen might change her mind later, but the impact of her future testimony will be diluted, picked apart by the prosecution, made less believable.

  Cray continues to talk softly, asking if Ray Hegarty had any obvious enemies. Had he argued with anyone? Did he have any money worries?

  ‘We have to interview Sienna, you understand?’

  Helen’s gaze drifts past me to the hospital room.

  ‘You can be there or you can ask someone else - another adult to be with her. Someone like Professor O’Loughlin.’

  ‘My Sienna didn’t do it . . . she wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Abbott is going to take you to Flax Bourton Coroner’s Court. Somebody has to formerly identify Ray’s body. Can you do that for me? I could ask one of your other children.’

  ‘No. I’ll do it.’

  Monk steps forward and picks up Helen’s handbag from the floor.

  From the far end of the corridor comes the sound of a commotion, heavy boots and shouting. Lance Hegarty knocks over a young nurse who is trying to slow him down. Wearing a scuffed leather jacket and grease-stained jeans, his hair is shaved to black stubble that looks like a skullcap on his pale skin.

  Monk intercepts him, hooking one arm across his chest, plucking him off his feet.

  ‘Get your hands off me, you black bastard!’

  Helen yells, ‘Put him down!’

  Monk and Cray exchange a glance. It says more than words.

  The DS releases his hold and Lance wraps his arms around his mother, stroking her hair with a tattooed hand. Then he looks at Cray, challenging her.

  ‘What happened to Sienna? Did someone hurt her? Who did it?’

  The DCI puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Your father is dead. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’

  ‘He was a fine man.’

  ‘He was a fucking monster!’

  The words seem to detonate in the enclosed space. Helen puts her hand on Lance’s chest. Fingers spread. Calming him.

  Lance looks at her. ‘What about sis?’

  Cray answers. ‘Sienna is going to be just fine.’

  ‘Can I see her? Is she in there?’

  Before Lance can reach the door, Monk bodychecks him.

  ‘Get this gorilla away from me!’

  The DCI rocks forward and digs a thumb into Lance’s ribs. He flinches and whines, ‘What was that for?’

  ‘That’s to remind you to show some respect, son.’

  Lance gives her a denigrating sneer before lowering his gaze. I watch from the doorway as he approaches the bed. One look at Sienna and his anger evaporates. Reaching out, he tentatively brushes his fingers across her hand lying open-palmed on the sheet.

  Sienna’s eyelids flutter.

  ‘Hey, kid!’

  She smiles weakly. ‘You’ve never held my hand.’

  ‘Sure I have.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you were little and I took you to school.’

  Sienna finds it funny and squeezes his hand tighter.

  ‘Did you hear about Daddy? I’m trying to be sad, but I’m not.’

  7

  Three fifteen. Waiting at the school gates with dozens of mothers and grandmothers. I’m the only male here beyond the age of Huggies. I tend to stand apart because I’m not good at making small talk or remembering their names. I link mothers to their children: Jasper’s mum or Sophie’s mum.

  One woman approaches. Young and pretty, with short auburn hair, she buries her hands in the pockets of a Barbour jacket, which looks two sizes too big for her. She’s probably a nanny.

  ‘Hello, I’m Natasha.’

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Your Emma and my Billy are in the same class.’

  She’s not a nanny after all.

  ‘And you have Charlie,’ she adds.

  ‘How do you know Charlie?’

  ‘My husband teaches at Shepparton Park.’

  Before I can ask her husband’s name, the school bell rings and laughter and young voices fill the playground, jostling for their bags. It takes me a moment to spot Emma, whose schoolbag makes her look like a turtle walking on her hind legs.

  I call her name. She raises her eyes. There’s that smile.

  She holds
my hand - something Charlie doesn’t do any more. I loop her bag over my shoulder and shorten my stride.

  ‘How are things, Emm?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Learn anything to today?’

  ‘Mrs Graveney said we were getting a male teacher.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I thought the postman was going to teach us how to put letters in mailboxes.’

  I try not to laugh. ‘That’s a different sort of mail.’

  She looks at me crossly. ‘I know that now.’

  We reach the terrace and Emma changes out of her uniform into a Snow White dress she has been wearing obsessively for the past two months. By now the neighbours will think she’s strange, but it’s not worth arguing over. I’m sure she’s not going to be wearing it when she accepts her Nobel Prize.

  I’m more concerned about her other ‘foibles’, which is a polite way of describing her neuroses. Last week she launched her dinner plate across the table because a meatball ‘touched’ her macaroni. What was I thinking, putting them on the same plate!

  I have learned some remarkable things since becoming a father and I appreciate how much there is still to learn. I know, for example, that a pound coin can pass harmlessly through the digestive system of a four-year-old. I know that regurgitated chicken-flavoured ramen noodles and tomato sauce will ruin a silk carpet; that nail polish sticks to the inside of a bath and too much beetroot turns a toddler’s urine a neon crimson colour.

  There is also a mysterious person living in our house called Notme, who is responsible for leaving wet towels on the floor, empty crisp packets on the sofa and chucking buckets of toys around the bedroom. I got so sick of cleaning up after Notme that I made a dummy out of old pillows, dressed it up and hung a sign on his chest saying, ‘Notme’.

  Emma thinks it’s hilarious.

  When I discovered locks of her beautiful hair floating in the toilet bowl and more evidence in her bedroom, I demanded to know who did the cutting.

  ‘Not me,’ said Emma.

  I looked at Charlie.

  ‘Well, it’s not me.’

  I went to the dummy. ‘Listen, Notme, did you cut Emma’s hair?’

  Emma looked on nervously.

  ‘Notme says he didn’t do it,’ I announced.

  ‘Did he really say that?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Really?’