Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  A couple of minutes on my mobile gives me directions to the town’s police station. It turns out to be a utilitarian sprawl of buildings dumped in the middle of what might once have been an attractive square. There’s a scatter of vehicles in the car park, and blinds have been lowered in some of the upstairs windows against the glare of the morning sun, but it looks unloved and only partially occupied.

  I linger for a while, trying to make up my mind what to do. Responsibility is a big word. Exmouth isn’t small. Somewhere in this town, maybe sleeping rough, maybe tucked up on someone’s sofa, is a young boy with serious problems. That he has the means, and the motivation, to break into a stranger’s house in the middle of the night and appear in her bedroom is beyond doubt. Any woman, even Carrie, would have been terrified. Worse still, bluffing or otherwise, the intruder claimed to have killed.

  This stuff happens. Only months ago, a guy in his twenties with what the media termed ‘serious mental issues’ murdered three pensioners in Exeter, barely a bus ride away. I happen to know because it made the national news. Three total strangers selected at random by a lunatic who should already have been locked up, both for his sake and for ours. Is Carrie’s scary young visitor someone similar? Has he slipped through the net? And shouldn’t I, a sort of witness, be doing something about it?

  Still uncertain, I make my way back to the town centre. Outside the Co-op is a triangle of benches occupied by a noisy gaggle of rough sleepers. They’re all on the young side of middle age. Two of them have dogs, artfully sprawled on a blanket beside an upturned cap. Elderly women ignore the mid-morning cans of White Lightning and add to the pile of coins inside the cap. From a distance, I watch this scene, wondering whether any of these men might know an overweight youth with a blue football top and a dental brace. Might a conversation be in order? Would money open a mouth or two? Once again, I’m uncertain. A walk along the beach, maybe. And a bit of a think.

  I’m back at the penthouse by midday, still confused. Of Carrie, there’s no sign. When I go in to see Pavel, he tells me that she’s popped out for half an hour. Often, around noon, she drops into a local café to buy chips for Pavel’s lunch. I check he’s OK and set out to find the café. En route along the path that skirts the seaward side of the marina development I spot a figure hunched on the curl of sand beneath the wall. She’s nursing a cup of coffee, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring out to sea. Carrie.

  A ramp leads down to the tiny beach. It’s obvious at once that I’m the last person Carrie wants to see. She looks up at me, shading her eyes. I squat beside her. She must have been crying because her cheeks are still wet with tears. I begin to go through it all again, how worried I am, how she needs help, how a situation like this has to be addressed. She has the grace to hear me out, but then shakes her head.

  ‘I lied to you yesterday,’ she says. ‘None of that stuff ever happened.’

  FIVE

  What to do?

  Mercifully, this very afternoon, I get a call from my only offspring, Malo. For seventeen years I assumed he was my ex-husband’s son but then a DNA test proved that H was his real dad, the result of a drunken night aboard a super yacht in Antibes literally twenty-four hours before I laid eyes on Berndt, a discovery that has shaped all our lives ever since.

  ‘How are you?’

  Malo, it turns out, is badly hungover. He lives with his Colombian girlfriend, a woman he doesn’t deserve. Her name is Clemenza and I pray daily that she’ll never leave him. Last night, it seems, he’d fallen into bad company with a young Dutch anarchist and ended up at Clem’s little mews cottage draining an entire bottle of jenever, which, as I know to my own cost, is Amsterdam’s take on gin.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘She left us to it. I haven’t seen her since. She may still be upstairs, but I doubt it.’

  ‘So, where did you sleep?’

  ‘It must have been the sofa. That’s where I woke up.’

  I find myself nodding. In my trade it becomes all too easy to picture a scene from a handful of clues. Clem, who never touches alcohol of any sort, would have left Malo and his new friend to it. Here’s hoping she comes back.

  ‘Dad says you’re in Exmouth,’ Malo says. ‘You mind if I come down?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just fancy a bit of time out, me-time, whatever. Is that woman still around? The windsurfer. Jackie? Gillie?’

  ‘Carrie.’

  ‘Yeah. Her. I thought she might teach me how to do it.’

  ‘You mean windsurfing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’s a carer, Malo. She looks after the sick and the helpless. Maybe that’s where you should start.’

  ‘Is that a yes, then? Spare bedroom? Proper food? I’ve got a couple of things to sort. How does tomorrow sound?’

  My gaze has strayed to the window. The doors are open to the balcony and I’m watching a skein of geese in perfect formation heading for their roost across the river. In truth, having Malo here would be a complication I don’t need just now but already it’s too late to suggest he sobers up somewhere else. My darling boy has hung up.

  I’m back at the police station by mid-afternoon. A slightly longer session on Google has given me a name. Inspector Geraghty is evidently Exmouth’s lead cop. My lovely mum, a Bretonne to her fingertips, always insisted on going to the top of any organization when you have something important to say, but getting hold of Mr Geraghty isn’t as simple as I’d anticipated. For one thing, the police station’s front door is locked.

  A small notice nearby advises me to phone a central number for help, or – in cases of extreme urgency – dial 999. Extreme urgency? I tap on the reinforced glass of the door. What I have in mind calls for an intimate conversation in the privacy of Inspector Geraghty’s office. How on earth could I describe Carrie’s situation to an anonymous voice on the phone?

  I knock again, much louder. Beyond the door is a passage receding into the depths of the building. No sign of anyone. I knock a third time, then a fourth. Finally, a door opens, and a large woman makes her way towards me. She has a felt-tip pen in one hand and she’s wearing what looks like a cardigan over a crisp white shirt. The cardigan must have been a long-ago Christmas present because the little motifs on the front turn out to be reindeers.

  She opens the door, gestures towards the notice. ‘You tried the phone?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because it’s personal. I need to talk to Inspector Geraghty. It’s a private matter.’

  She studies me for a moment. She has a full face, pleasing dimples, and the wildness of her hair – a blaze of auburn curls – badly needs a stiff brush. Clerical staff, I think. Not a police officer at all. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

  ‘Inspector Geraghty?’ I gesture inside. ‘Might he spare a moment or two?’

  For the first time she smiles but I’m not sure she means it. She stands aside to let me in. We walk down the corridor to the still-open door. The office is under-furnished: a conference table, four chairs, two metal filing cabinets, and a poster on the wall urging women to report domestic violence. On the table is a recording machine and a foolscap pad full of jottings. The woman gestures at one of the spare chairs and settles heavily behind the pad, scribbling herself a note of some kind before looking up.

  For the third time I enquire about Inspector Geraghty.

  ‘That would be me,’ she says.

  ‘You’re Inspector Geraghty?’

  ‘Indeed. And you are …?’

  I give her my name and I’m still doing my best to mumble an apology when she cuts me short.

  ‘So how can I help you, Ms Andressen?’

  In thespy parlance, I’m the goldfish in the tank, staring blankly out, mouth half open, eyes glazed. This has started badly and unless I get a grip it threatens to get a whole lot worse. I’ve managed to make it across the drawbridge, I’ve
avoided the boiling oil, but now I have to justify my impatience with the house rules.

  ‘I have a good friend.’ I adjust my posture in the chair. ‘And this friend thinks she’s about to be murdered.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This is tricky. Maybe I shouldn’t be here at all. It’s really difficult.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Yes. And for her.’

  ‘She has a name, this friend of yours? Contact details?’

  The felt-tip pen hovers over a fresh page in the pad. I do my best to explain the situation. I’ve already broken a confidence, but my friend is terrified and under the circumstances I don’t blame her.

  ‘Terrified how?’

  This, of course, is the crux of the matter. If I want this woman’s help it has to be official. Otherwise, there may be no point in going on. Nonetheless, the least I owe Carrie is a bid to keep the genie in the bottle.

  ‘Can I assume this conversation is private?’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘That you keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I mean just for the time being.’

  ‘Why? I’m assuming you’ve come here in good faith. Your friend needs help. Or maybe advice. So why don’t you tell me what’s happened? Is that too big an ask?’

  I’m staring at her. She’s doing what a good cop should. She deals in facts, in evidence. This is a police station, not a therapy centre. And time – hers especially – is doubtless precious.

  ‘So …’ She’s still waiting, pen poised.

  I have a choice here. I can leave or stay. Leaving will resolve nothing. Staying might, at the very least, offer Carrie a glimmer of light. And so, I repeat her account, the story she told me yesterday, more or less word for word. Waking up. Finding the youth beside her bed. Watching him trying to masturbate. Doing her best to get rid of him. And then, the real heart of it, the threats he made if she breathed a word to anyone else.

  Most of the story appears to have made little impact on my new friend but the bit at the end, the denouement, has certainly won her attention.

  ‘He said that? Threatened to kill her?’

  ‘Yes. And he also told her he’d done it before.’

  ‘Killed people?’

  ‘Killed people.’

  She nods. So far, I’ve been very careful not to mention Carrie by name, but I sense that this ploy is rapidly running out of road. For Inspector Geraghty to be of any practical help, I need to trust her. Mercifully, she’s already two steps ahead of me.

  ‘Do you think this friend of yours would talk to us?’

  ‘No. No chance. In fact, she’ll probably deny the whole thing.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Because she’s terrified.’

  ‘But what if she’s making it all up? Have you thought of that?’

  In truth, I haven’t. I give it a moment’s consideration, then shake my head.

  ‘She hasn’t,’ I say. ‘She’s not that kind of woman. She’s a qualified nurse. She’s physically fit. She windsurfs. She’s on top of it all.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’ Her date of birth is on her contract of employment.

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘In a relationship?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But she lives alone? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, yes.’

  Question by question, the jigsaw that is Carrie is coming together. Sooner than I’d planned, I’ll have to give her a name. But first Geraghty wants to know more about my own relationship with this woman.

  ‘You told me earlier she’s a good friend.’

  ‘She is. Or I like to think so.’

  ‘Then how come you know so little about her?’

  It’s a good question. I explain about Pavel, about the sheer weight of his medical needs, about the difficulties of finding someone like Carrie to look after him.

  ‘You employ her?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Here? In Exmouth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where, exactly?’ I tell her Pavel has an address in the marina development.

  ‘Which is what?’

  I hesitate a moment, then shrug. Another little moment of surrender, I think.

  ‘The block beside the slipway. Third floor. At the top.’

  ‘The big penthouse apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The phrase carries no trace of irony, not the slightest indication that I’m making her life more complicated than it need be. I’m beginning to like this woman. She makes a note and then looks up. ‘You said windsurfer.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Stripy sail? Red on white? Blonde? Middle-aged? Short-sleeved wetsuit?’

  ‘Yes.’ I try to hide my surprise. ‘You know this woman already?’

  ‘I do, yes. Everyone does, if you happen to be on the water.’

  ‘You’re telling me you windsurf, too?’

  ‘Hardly. I keep a little runaround. When I get the time, I go fishing.’ She offers me a thin smile, and then gestures at the notepad. ‘I find it helps with the blood pressure.’

  We return to Carrie’s visitor. As best I can I offer a physical description. Young. Curly hair. Receding chin. Overweight. Braces on his teeth. Grey trackie bottoms and a distinctive football top.

  ‘And mad, you say?’

  ‘That’s my friend’s opinion. I’ve never met the boy.’

  Geraghty looks up. Her patience, at last, is beginning to run out.

  ‘Let’s give her a name, shall we? This friend of yours?’

  ‘Carrie.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Tollman.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The name goes down on the pad, capital letters. ‘Address?’

  ‘Seven Isca Terrace. Basement flat.’

  Another note. Then she asks me how the intruder got in. I describe the gouge marks in the wooden door frame and this morning’s sighting of the guy fitting a new lock.

  ‘Forced entry? Is that what I’m hearing?’

  I agree that’s what it sounds like. She nods, abandons the felt tip, and sits back in her chair.

  ‘Here’s the problem,’ she says. ‘Let’s assume your friend hasn’t made this up. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. Let’s agree she wakes up in the middle of the night with this disturbed young man standing beside her. There’s only one witness. Her. Carrie. And if she won’t talk to us, won’t even admit it happened, then basically there’s no way to progress the investigation.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s worth trying to find the boy?’ I nod at the note pad. ‘On the basis of her description?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll keep our eyes open, make one or two enquiries, nothing too high profile, nothing to alarm him. But beyond that, there’s very little we can do. Not until she chooses to make this thing official.’

  ‘And you don’t think he might be dangerous? That he might mean all this stuff about killing people?’

  ‘We don’t know. We can’t tell. We have intel on the ground in town, officers who keep tabs on newcomers. It’s April. The weather may perk up. Exmouth’s a nice place, even if you have to sleep rough. We can ask around, make one or two enquiries, keep our eyes open.’

  ‘And if you find him?’

  ‘We can find a pretext to shake him down, do a light body search. That will give us a name and whatever else and it needn’t involve your friend. But I’m afraid that’s where it ends. Without hard evidence, without a statement from Carrie, our hands are tied.’

  ‘But he may be mad,’ I point out. ‘He may do anything. To anyone. As I understand it, these people don’t need a motive. They just kick off. Isn’t that important?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ She’s frowning now. ‘Do you know how much police time is taken up with stuff like this? People with mental health issues? Fo
rty per cent. Forty. Four Oh. That means my officers spend nearly half their paid time being social workers. And you know why? Because no one else will have anything to do with these people. Once we had specialist beds aplenty, qualified staff, places of safety. Those days have gone. Say we arrest someone who’s kicked off in the street. It might be verbal abuse. It might go a whole lot further. We attend. We arrest the bloke. We sit him down, and we talk to him. Pretty quickly it turns out he isn’t the full shilling. He doesn’t fit in, he doesn’t behave, because he doesn’t know how to. He’s not a criminal, he’s a head case, and believe me there are hundreds of them, thousands of them. What do we do? We put him in a cell for his own safety and then we start working the phones. We’re after a psychiatric bed. We need him properly assessed. But unless he’s done something really alarming, that kind of provision just doesn’t exist any more. So down goes the phone and after a day or so chummy is back on the streets, as lost as ever. Is he a threat to the public? We have no idea. Will he kill someone one day? He might, but unless someone takes the time and trouble to find out we have no option but to release him. Out there. Into the wild. You think I’m making this up?’ She shakes her head, and then checks her watch. ‘If only.’

  This, I suspect, is my cue to leave. It’s obvious that Carrie’s story has touched a sore point but it’s equally clear that I am on my own, and Carrie with me. I get to my feet. I want to thank her for her help but under the circumstances the word ‘help’ sounds faintly surreal.

  Geraghty ignores the proffered hand.

  ‘Talk to your friend again.’ She offers me a card. ‘Suggest she gives us a ring. Convince her that we don’t bite. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.’

  At last she gets to her feet, pulling the cardigan a little tighter. One of the windows doesn’t quite fit properly and for the first time, I realize how cold it is.

  ‘Central heating’s on the blink.’ She follows me back to the front entrance. ‘But that’s another story.’