‘Duty?’
‘His solicitor. That doesn’t make life any easier for us but that’s not her job. Like I say, we live in a world of diminishing choices.’
‘Which is why you released him?’
‘Why we had to, yes.’
I’m peering back into the lounge. Carrie seems to have gone.
‘Surveillance?’ I murmur. ‘Can’t you keep tabs on him?’
‘You’re kidding.’ My suggestion draws a mirthless laugh from Geraghty. ‘We’d be talking a team of fourteen. If he was a terrorist, it might be different. Someone like this boy, any surveillance bid from me would be turned down flat.’
‘But he told Carrie he’d killed people. And he threatened to kill her, too.’
‘Fantasy, Enora. I’m sorry. We’ve done what we can.’
This is the first time Geraghty’s used my Christian name. I thank her for her efforts and ask whether she considers the case closed.
‘There is no case,’ she says. ‘But if it helps at all, we bought him a ticket and put him on a train. The ticket will take him to London. Let’s hope that’s where he stays.’
The line goes dead. I slip my mobile back into the pocket of my jeans. It’s high tide and two figures are knee deep in the Duck Pond, sorting out a tangle of lines on a big scarlet kite. One of them is definitely Malo. The other one must be Jean-Paul. I watch them for a moment. Finally, Malo gives the control bar a hefty tug and the kite blooms like a flower in the wind. Seconds later, he’s hopped on the board and headed upriver. I hear the faintest whoop of triumph before the door slides open behind me, and Carrie appears.
‘They’ve let him go?’ Her voice is flat.
‘They have. He’s gone to London. It’s over, Carrie. He never killed anyone. The boy’s a fantasist. You’ll never see him again.’
She looks at me for a long moment, then she spots the lone figure standing in the Duck Pond, waiting for my clever son to come back.
‘That’s JP.’ She’s talking to herself. And smiling.
FIFTEEN
Next morning, I’m up early, feeling infinitely better, determined to put the past week behind me. A text from Deko suggesting a leisurely Good Friday cruise down the coast is full of promise and he even adds a thought or two about what we might be eating. Scallops, a big salad, fresh ciabatta? A couple more bottles of Chablis? Parfait, I text back. Marché conclu.
Deal done. Malo’s still asleep on the sofa, doubtless dreaming about big red kite sails, and I busy around in the kitchen, brewing coffee for Pavel, waiting for Carrie to arrive. The news that Moonie had left town definitely lifted her spirits yesterday and she even lingered for an hour or so last night to help with a celebratory bottle of Rioja. The bottle nearly empty, she had the grace to apologize for, in her words, being such a pain, but – as she was the first to point out – her conscience was clear as far as Moonie was concerned. She hadn’t breathed a word to the police and so there was no way her visitor could possibly connect her to his brief stay in custody.
By half past ten, she still hasn’t turned up. So far, I’ve resisted the temptation to give her a ring, thinking she might have slept in or be nursing a hangover, but with Pavel beginning to get fractious I try to raise her on my mobile. Nothing. I try again. She doesn’t pick up. This is a pain. I’ve made a late-morning appointment with a hairdresser Carrie herself has recommended, ahead of my date, and I don’t want to miss it. By now, Malo is at least semi-conscious. I tell him to keep an eye on Pavel until I get back and set out for Carrie’s place.
The moment I get there, I know something has happened. The front door at the foot of her steps is an inch or so open. I stare down at it, debating what to do. When I phone her number again, I can hear her distinctive ring tone – the opening bars of a Billie Eilish song – but again she doesn’t pick up. Slowly, step by step, I make my way down to the door. The sight of fresh damage in the wood around the lock freezes my blood. Dear God, no. Please, please, don’t let this thing happen again.
At this point I should phone the police, I know I should, but I’ve left Geraghty’s card in the apartment and I can’t bear the thought of going through the whole story again. And so I push very lightly on the door, watching it swing slowly open.
‘Carrie?’ I step inside, fearful now. No reply. I call her name a second time but all I can hear is the slow drip-drip from a leaking tap and the low burble of a passing car. Is now the time to beat a retreat? To spare myself whatever might lie behind one of these closed doors? I shake my head. She’s out somewhere, I tell myself. Maybe she’s with Jean-Paul, snatching a precious half-hour over a coffee. Maybe she’s in the Co-op, caught in a queue, laden with goodies for the weekend. Maybe she went out and forgot to close the door. Anything but what, deep down, I’m beginning to dread.
Opening the first door reveals a sitting room, airless, sparsely furnished, unused. Next door is a bathroom, no windows, an abandoned towel on the curling lino tiles, everything jigsawed together. A worm of Colgate on a blue toothbrush catches my eye. It’s propped on the handbasin, readied for use, but for some reason it never got as far as Carrie’s mouth. By now I’m uncomfortably aware that I might be trespassing on a crime scene, but something inside still tells me I owe Carrie a duty of care. Whatever lies behind that third door falls to me. My responsibility. My call. The kitchen, which I saw last time I was here, is at the back of the property. This has to be her bedroom.
I hesitate a moment. My heart is thumping, and I have a strange tightness in my throat. I do my best to steady myself, then I push down on the handle and ease the door open. It’s dark in the bedroom, the curtains pulled tight against the sunshine outside, and for a moment or two I can make no sense of the shape on the bed. Then my eyes adjust, and I realize that I’m looking at Carrie.
She’s sprawled on her side, one knee up, a semi-foetal pose. Her eyes are wide open in the blankness of her face. Naked, she’s lying in a drying pool of what must be her own blood. It’s everywhere, over the sheets, the duvet, the pillows, the wallpaper, everywhere.
I take a tiny step forward, as if I could help somehow. Whatever happened, she must have put up a fight because her hands and lower arms are criss-crossed with what look like knife wounds. I’m sure every crime scene has a story to tell, and I’ve read far too many scripts to think otherwise, but this one is truly horrible. Below her breasts, Carrie’s lovely body has been ripped apart.
I call 999 from the pavement at the top of the stairs. Within seconds, I’m talking to a woman who doesn’t register the slightest surprise when I give her a bare summary of what I’ve just seen. A friend of mine. Dead in her own property. Attacked with a knife. Blood everywhere. The woman takes my details and a careful note of Carrie’s address. She checks to make sure I’m OK and asks me to stay where I am until help arrives. Minutes later, I can hear the distant howl of what I assume is a police siren, but when the vehicle turns the corner at the bottom of the street it turns out to be an ambulance. It pulls to a halt beside me. The driver is out first. When I gesture down towards the basement flat and tell him it’s a bit late for resus, he shakes his head.
‘It’s you, love. You’re sure you’re all right?’
I protest that I’m fine. Shocked? Yes. Upset? Just a bit. But still standing. Another siren announces the arrival of a marked police car. Geraghty is sitting beside the driver. She joins me on the pavement. By now, I’m in tears. What must have happened down there has finally hit me. Carrie on her own. Carrie waking up to hear those same footsteps down the hall. Carrie on one elbow, watching the door creak open. Carrie fighting for her young life.
Geraghty has her arms round me. She’s swaying gently, just the way my mum would when I was a child. The paramedic has produced a fistful of tissues. These people, I think vaguely, couldn’t be kinder but none of that matters because Carrie, our Carrie, my Carrie, J-P’s Carrie, is still down there. Dead.
I’ve managed to tell Geraghty enough for her to seal the house off. The uniformed officer disappears d
own the street to investigate the rear of the property while Geraghty uses her personal radio to summon CID and forensics. In this mad flurry of activity we exchange glances a couple of times. If only things had been different, if only we’d taken more notice, if only we’d taken Moonie at his word, this needn’t have happened. Geraghty’s fault. My fault. Maybe even Carrie’s fault. A life tossed needlessly away.
More vehicles attend, men and women in uniforms, men in suits. The street is now sealed at both ends and neighbours have appeared to have a gawp. This, I think numbly, is beginning to look like a film set and I wonder what Pavel would have made of it, when he still had eyes to see. Geraghty has despatched a PCSO to brief the neighbours and encourage them back indoors. Very soon, I suspect detectives will be knocking at every one of these addresses and I’m still wondering about the trail of clues Moonie must have left when Geraghty is back at my side.
‘You’ll need support,’ she says. ‘Who shall we phone?’
It’s a good question. The obvious answer is Malo. He’s definitely kith and kin, but I need someone to keep an eye on Pavel, and in any case, I don’t want him seeing me in this state.
‘There’s a guy called Deko. He’s a good friend. He’s in my contacts under D.’ I give Geraghty my mobile. ‘What happens next?’
‘We take you back to the station. We’ll need to take a full statement. You’re OK with that?’ There’s something in her voice I haven’t picked up before and I don’t much like it.
‘You’re telling me I’m a suspect?’
‘I’m telling you nothing. Until we know exactly what’s happened, we keep an open mind. You’ve had a terrible shock. Relax. I’ll run you up myself.’
We drive to the police station. Geraghty parks round the back and escorts me to a rear entrance. The place is buzzing, office doors opening and closing, footsteps on the stairs, officers hurrying past with phones pressed to their ears.
Geraghty finds me a chair in her office and lifts the phone to summon a younger woman to look after me. The woman arrives with tea minutes later, but I notice that Geraghty, who must be more than busy, won’t leave me unattended. Do these people think I might do a runner? Have I really become the victim of cinema’s oldest cliché? That whoever discovers the body automatically becomes the prime suspect? I park the thought for later. Pavel again. He’d have lots to say.
Deko appears at the door half an hour later. He enfolds me in a long hug, for which I’m more than grateful, and he has the tact to resist asking me exactly what happened. All I want is to be held, to be comforted. Conversation, just now, is beyond me. All I can think of is that hideous basement flat, and the darkness in Carrie’s bedroom. No one, least of all her, should die in circumstances like that.
At length, I summon just enough strength to offer Deko an apology.
‘What for?’
‘You’re a busy man. You don’t need all this in your life.’
He shakes his head. He kisses me softly on the head. My mum, again. Exactly the right response.
I’m thinking about H when a detective arrives and asks for a private word with Deko. He nods, gives my hand a squeeze, and joins the detective in the corridor outside. H, I realize, has to know about all this as soon as possible. I’m finding it very hard to think straight, to be practical, but the fact is that Pavel will need someone to replace Carrie. We’ve still got Felip but he can’t possibly cope 24/7 and although Malo and I can fill in during the day, there has to be a more permanent solution.
The office door opens and Deko is back at my side.
‘They want to interview you,’ he says. ‘I’m guessing here, but it might take a while. Do you want me to stay?’
I just look at him and he knows there’s only one answer.
‘Of course.’ He stoops to kiss me again. ‘I’ll be around just as soon as you need me.’
I accompany the detective downstairs to the same office where I first met Geraghty. Another detective, a woman, is already sitting at the table. She gets to her feet and introduces herself as DS Williams. She’s tall and watchful. Lovely hair, cut short, urchin style, softening the gauntness of her face.
‘Do you mind if we record this?’ She nods at the machine beside her notepad. At the top of the pad, in careful capital letters, she’s written my name.
I tell her I’m fine with the machine. Anything I can do to help. Anything. Williams, as I expected, wants me to describe exactly what happened at the flat: where I’d been before, why I came looking for Carrie, what I found in her bedroom. When she asks whether I’d noticed anything out of place, anything that seemed odd, I mention the toothpaste in the bathroom. This earns a nod of approval.
‘Good.’ She makes a note, the faintest smile on her face. ‘You should be doing our job.’
Next, she wants to know about my earlier visit when I managed to coax Carrie to tell me about Moonie. She must have been briefed by Geraghty already, but she insists on every single detail: what time he turned up, how he appeared to have got in, what happened in the bedroom, and – crucially – what he said before he left.
‘He threatened to kill her,’ I say. ‘Exactly the way he’d killed before.’
‘Which was?’
‘Disembowelment.’ I gesture down at my lap. ‘Which proves he’s a man of his word.’
‘You think he did it? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘I think he’s mad, crazy. It may be the same thing.’
Williams holds my gaze for a moment or two, then scribbles herself another note. So far, to my disappointment, we’ve yet to discuss the woeful lack of psychiatric provision for lunatics like Moonie.
‘We need to know about Carrie.’ It’s the DC this time. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘I’m not sure I understand the question. She’s dead. The boy Moonie came back and killed her. Stabbed her. Tore her innards out. Just the way he promised. Like I just said, a man of his word.’
I pause. The two of them have exchanged glances. There’s a slightly uncomfortable silence before the DS takes up the running again.
‘Her private life? Carrie. How well did you know her?’
I shake my head. This line of questioning, at least to me, is beyond surreal. Somewhere out there, in the wild, an adolescent is still running around. He’ll probably be covered in blood. He’ll have poor Carrie’s DNA all over him. He might fancy disembowelling some other poor woman. Why do we need to discuss Carrie’s private life?
Williams seems to understand exactly the way I’m feeling. She’s patience on legs, but she can be stern when she needs to be.
‘You’re a material witness, Ms Andressen. You’re doing your best to help us and believe me, we appreciate that. In return, you should understand where we’re coming from. Time is of the essence. We need to know as much as we can, as quickly as we can, and it needs to be information we can trust.’
‘About Carrie?’
‘At this point in the investigation, yes. So, let me put the question again. How well did you know her?’
‘I was her employer,’ I say woodenly. ‘And, I hope, her friend.’
‘She confided in you?’
‘She told me what she wanted to tell me. As far as her work was concerned, she was brilliant, utterly brilliant.’
I tell them about Pavel, the sheer complexity of his needs, how intelligent he is, how intuitive, and how difficult he can be.
‘Carrie coped with all that. His physical demands are never-ending, a challenge in themselves. Patients like him are always one nursing mistake away from a bed sore. Bed sores can become ulcers, and ulcers can kill. Pavel has never had even the beginnings of a bed sore under Carrie. But that’s not the point. He needs handling, he needs stimulation, he needs a listening ear, and she supplied all that, too.’
‘You’re telling us they were close?’
‘Very.’
‘Might he have become a confidant?’
‘Yes.’
The DC is writing all this down.
When I pause for breath, his head comes up.
‘Where would we interview him?’ he asks. ‘Would here be appropriate?’
‘Absolutely not. You’d have to come to the apartment.’
I give him the address. He makes another note. Williams hasn’t finished.
‘You said you were a friend. With respect to Carrie.’
‘I did.’
‘Was she in a relationship of any kind?’
‘Long term, I don’t know. She never mentioned anyone and to be honest I never asked. These things can be tricky.’
‘Any children that you know of?’
‘No.’
‘And more recently? Was there anyone special in her life?’
I hesitate. I have to be careful here. These people are painstaking. They’re clever. They’ll doubtless be talking to others as they cast their net wider and wider. The last thing I want is the spotlight returning to yours truly because I’ve been less than honest. I was the one, after all, urging Carrie to go to the police in the first place.
‘There’s a guy I know she was keen on,’ I say.
I give them Jean-Paul’s name and tell them where to find him.
‘They were close?’
‘I think so. Jean-Paul’s married. That must have made things difficult.’
Another exchange of glances. My heart sinks. Have I just given them another suspect? Another motive? Christ, I hope not.
‘How long has this relationship been going on? To your knowledge?’
‘Not long.’
‘And does he have children? This …’ She glances down at her pad. ‘Jean-Paul.’
‘Yes. Two, as far as I know.’
Another note. I sit back and fold my arms, trying not to imagine the tap-tap on Jean-Paul’s door and his wife’s realization that her marriage might not be everything she’d imagined. Maybe they were in trouble already. Maybe it took someone like Carrie to administer the last rites.
Williams asks whether there’s anything else I need to tell them about Carrie, and when I shake my head she thanks me for what she calls ‘my candour’. To my relief, the interview appears to be over. Williams says she knows it’s difficult for me and she mentions an organization that offers post-trauma support and therapy for witnesses in my situation. I tell her I’m grateful for the offer, and when the DC asks when it might be convenient to pay Pavel a visit, I give him my number and suggest he gives me a ring tomorrow.
Off Script Page 12
