by Julie Corbin
‘Good men like Julian are important to our justice system.’
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘And I love that about him. But in this case . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Julian’s background is very different from mine or yours. His dad was a diplomat in Africa so Julian and his siblings were ferried to and from boarding schools in England. In some ways it was a chaotic household but there was always lots of love and with that love came security. Nowadays, his brothers and sisters are all married and successful. Their families are thriving. Both his parents are alive and well, and after almost fifty years together they still hold hands. Julian is privileged, and not because he went to Eton, but because he’s never suffered. He knows nothing about loss and about the finality of death.’ I shrug. ‘He’s lucky. He has confidence in the world. He hasn’t been hurt.’ I take a drink of my tea, almost drain the cup. ‘You and I, on the other hand, we’re alike. We know life goes belly up for the best of people.’ I raise my voice. ‘I need the witness information and I won’t leave until you give it to me.’
His eyebrows lift at this, the look on his face a warning for me not to overstep the mark. My confidence falters and then I think about a particular phrase from the emails – Mostly I favour the knife . . . Sometimes I enjoy making it slow. I won’t let someone like that near my child. I sit up straighter and stare back at him. I feel sad for the state of my marriage, and I feel guilty that I am aiming to sabotage the trial, but both these feelings are dwarfed by the reality of the risk to Bea.
‘I will owe you, big time. I know that. I won’t tell anyone how I came by the information. I’ll email it from my own laptop directly to her email address. I can’t lose my child and I’m not convinced that we can adequately protect her. It’s two weeks until the trial starts and longer than that before he’s given his evidence. Four weeks, a month, thirty whole days without a slip-up? It’s too risky.’ I swallow the last of my tea. ‘And if you need any more convincing, then you must know that I will report you for falsifying records that led to Abe Martin’s conviction.’
I say all this in a flat tone because for the first time since I opened the parcel with the heart in it I feel completely calm. Mac is still eyeballing me. No facial expression. Nothing. Years of being a policeman gives most cops an unreadable expression that they can use at will, but with Mac I suspect he’s always been this way. His Scottish ancestry has given him a tough exterior.
‘We can play the game of you resisting and me pushing, if you like,’ I say, ‘but I’m not going to leave here until you tell me.’
More silence. I wait.
‘Abe Martin murdered Kerry Smith,’ he says slowly. ‘He was guilty as fuck. You know it and I know it.’
‘You’re a policeman, an upholder of the law, and yet you broke it. You broke several laws, in fact. And those offences could not only have you sacked but also prosecuted. Maximum sentence five years in prison.’ I blow out some air. ‘It’s a hard life for a policeman in prison.’
‘You’re threatening me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And here I was thinking you would offer yourself to me.’
‘A repeat of what we did after Kerry’s funeral?’ I smile. ‘Would you like that?’
He looks me up and down. ‘Would you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But only if I give you the details?’
‘I would like it anyway.’
He leans in close and kisses me lightly on the lips. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You want me to prove it?’ My lips are tingling and there’s heat in my stomach.
‘No, I don’t want you to prove it.’ He leans in again and this time he kisses me properly, his tongue persuading its way into my mouth. It’s fiery and intense and I feel the effects of it in my toes.
‘You have balls, Claire. I’ll give you that.’
‘Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t do the same.’
‘For my child?’ He leans back and thinks about it. ‘By now I’d have you strung up by the heels. I’d torture it out of you if that’s what it took.’
My heart stops. ‘Then you’ll give it to me?’
‘Yes.’ He’s staring right into my eyes. ‘But not because you threatened me. I’ll give you the details because my gut feeling is that I should. And I learned a long time ago that I’m no policeman at all if I can’t listen to that.’ He stands up. ‘You know that people will assume the leak came through Julian?’
‘Yes.’ I can barely breathe. I hover beside him as he writes a name and address down on a piece of paper. He holds it out to me. I read it and put it in the pocket of my jeans. ‘Thank you.’ I blink and tears run down my cheeks. ‘Thank you so, so much.’
‘You’re welcome. Now go.’ He turns me round. ‘Do your worst.’
I walk ahead of him to the front door, and when I open it, there’s a stag standing outside. Over six feet tall, he is silent and noble and completely unfazed by the sight of Mac and me.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Mac speaks quietly into my ear. ‘People say they’re pests because they eat everything in the garden, but I love seeing deer. They remind me that there is a world beyond the city and police work.’
‘Beautiful.’ I take deep breaths of the night air and let my lungs fill with not just oxygen but also the sense of peace and timelessness that the forest and the deer embody. We move towards my car and the stag turns slowly towards the trees. I climb in and say one last thank-you to Mac before I begin the drive home. Now that I have what I need, I feel the tension begin to dissolve into my bones. I’m not home and dry yet, of course. I still have to send her the email. I’ll have to do it behind Julian’s back, and heaven knows what will happen if he finds out, but the main thing is that Bea will be safe. She comes first.
The journey home takes twice as long as it should. There’s been an accident – a four-wheel drive has knocked someone off their bike and the ambulance is blocking the road – and the few of us who’re travelling this late are sent the long way round. It gives me time to acknowledge the question that’s lurking in the corner of my mind: is it my imagination or did Mac give over the information a bit too easily? Shouldn’t I have had to wrestle it out of him? Has he given me a bogus name and address?
The very thought that he could be playing me for a fool sends freezing-cold shivers through my sternum. My mind conjures up a scenario in which Mac is now ringing Julian, telling him that I’ve been given false information to keep me busy. The little woman with her fears and mistrust has been dealt with.
As my heart races and anger bites, I quickly realise that I can’t afford to entertain such doubt. It’s distracting. I need all my energy to be directed towards Bea’s safety. I can’t afford to be too suspicious or too paranoid. It won’t help. I have to take this tip-off at face value and act on it.
I drive home as quickly as I can, but still, I’m dismayed to find that time has run ahead of me and I’ve missed my midnight deadline. When I arrive back into our street, it’s almost one in the morning. There’s no movement apart from a dark blue Fiat that pulls away from the kerb. I automatically clock the registration. I even go so far as to write it down on a used parking ticket that’s sitting in a hollow in the dashboard. Then I step out of the car and pull my cardigan around me. A freezing wind is blowing, spiteful as a witch, fingering my clothes and lifting my hair. I run up the steps and am at the top before I realise that Baker and Faraway are missing. They are working a double shift and were here when I left. And they’re not supposed to leave their posts. I look down the street but can’t see any sign of them. And then I hear the sound of footsteps and watch as the two policemen who were patrolling the back of the house run into the street. They have their firearms out and are using their radios.
Fear grips my throat. I step into the porch. The lights on the console are unlit because the alarm has been switched off. I push open the inside door and in the dim light see what looks like someone lying on the floor. I run towards it and slide on a
wet patch, crashing down hard on my elbow.
Lights! Lights! I say to myself, get up on my knees and then my feet, grope along the wall and switch on the light. I blink. There are fingerprints in red paint on the wall and the light switch. And there’s red paint on my hands. I stare at them. It’s not paint. It’s blood. Ruby red, crimson, scarlet. Human blood. There’s a gurgling noise behind me. I turn round and see that the person lying on the floor is Julian. His hand is clutching at the side of his throat as blood escapes through his fingers. I drop to my knees beside him and place my hands where his are, feel his pulse, each beat sending a further spurt of blood out of his body and into my hands.
‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Help us!’
Lisa’s bedroom door opens and she comes out, gives a howl of disbelief.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I’m shrieking. ‘Now. Quickly.’
She runs to the kitchen for the phone just as the light goes on at the top of the stairs and Charlie almost flies down.
‘Get me a towel,’ I shout.
He’s staring. His mouth open, eyes like saucers.
‘Now!’ I scream. ‘Do it.’
He gets one from the downstairs bathroom and I pull it tight round the cut, afraid that to pull it too tight will mean Julian won’t be able to breathe but not tight enough and he will bleed to death. I press some more but still he bleeds. I watch the towel redden. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’
Lisa appears at my side and sobs as she and Charlie cling to each other. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’
Julian’s eyes are still open but only just. His face and cheeks are now a blue-grey colour. He is losing too much blood. He tries to speak – no words, just more blood, coming from his mouth this time.
‘Don’t talk,’ I say. ‘The ambulance is coming. Don’t be afraid. We have time. You’re going to be OK.’ And then I see what he’s trying to tell me. It’s written in his eyes. ‘Sweet Jesus.’ My hands start to shake, but I don’t let go of the towel. ‘Charlie, go upstairs and check that Bea’s in her bed.’
‘Mum.’ His voice cracks.
‘Do it.’ I look back at my husband. ‘Julian, you have to hang on.’ His eyes are closing. I watch his tears run down into the blood. ‘Don’t you dare die. Do you hear me? Look at me. I will not lose you. I. Will. Not. Lose. You.’ His eyes flutter open again. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘You keep looking at me. You keep doing that.’
I am split in two. My eyes are with Julian; my ears are with Charlie. I hear him upstairs, turning on every light, going into every room. When he arrives back at my side, he cries out, ‘She’s not in the house, Mum. Bea’s not here.’
I am pitched into a dark and dreadful place. My worst fear has been realised. Bea has been taken. I am too late. The blackmailer has moved quicker than I thought she would. I have let my daughter down.
Charlie is gulping back uncontrolled sobs, his body shaking so much he can barely stand, and Jack is with him, hanging on to the back of Charlie’s T-shirt, looking terrified. I want to join them both and huddle together and let go to the despair inside me. But I can’t.
‘Boys, put on some warm clothes, then go into the sitting room and stay there.’ I turn my head to shout to Lisa, ‘Take my phone from my back pocket. Press number two and then the green key. It’s Mac’s number. Tell him what’s happening.’ I look down at Julian. His eyes are shut. I don’t think he’s breathing. ‘No, Julian, please.’ I put my face close to his. ‘You can’t leave me. Please, please. Fight. Fight hard.’ I want to kiss him, shake him, bully him awake and alive, but I have to keep my hands on his neck.
Then I hear steps outside and I scream, ‘In here!’
The paramedics push their way inside, urgency dictating their speech and their movements. I stand up. I stand back. I watch them. They move in synchrony. One cuts away Julian’s clothes and shocks his heart as the other stems the flow of blood. Another two paramedics arrive and three of them work on Julian while the fourth calls back to base, ‘Adult male. Serious knife wound to right side of throat. Lost a lot of blood. We’re stabilising him now. ETA ten minutes.’ He looks at me. ‘Do you know his blood type?’
‘He’s O positive,’ I say. ‘He had his appendix out ten years ago. We found out then.’
‘And you’re his wife?’
I nod. ‘His name is Julian Miller.’ I’m watching the heart monitor. They shock him a third time and his heart starts to beat for itself. Relief washes through me. One second at a time, I tell myself. Take each second. Live it. Don’t look ahead.
Lisa appears at my elbow dressed in jeans and a sweater. ‘Are you going to the hospital with Julian?’ she asks me.
I nod my head and then immediately shake it as I remember that I still have to send the email. It’s not too late. I have the details the blackmailer wants. I can negotiate. I can get Bea back. I’m torn between going with Julian and staying here. I don’t want to leave Julian’s side, but at the same time I need to let the blackmailer know that I have the details.
Lisa sees my indecision and says, ‘I can go to the hospital with Julian. If you want to stay here . . . with the boys . . . and in case Bea comes home.’ She holds my wrist tight. ‘Mac is on his way.’ She tightens her grip. ‘Claire—’
‘Don’t say it,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t even think it.’
She kisses me on both cheeks and then goes to stand by the door. The paramedics lift Julian on to a stretcher. They’ve stuck patches to his chest attached to leads that connect to a heart monitor. There’s an oxygen mask covering his face and IV lines with fluids going into either arm. I walk with the stretcher as far as the door and say into his ear, ‘I love you, Julian. I’ll get Bea back.’ I kiss his waxen cheek. ‘I’ll find her.’ I stand on the step as they slide the stretcher on to the ambulance. Lisa climbs into the back beside him and they close the door.
The police and ambulance services are arriving in force. They’re out of their vehicles, their headlights left on, so that the street is flooded with light. My eyes scan the whole scene and then I look down the steps and to the side where there’s a gate leading down to the basement level. Faraway is lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. He is surrounded by paramedics. It looks like he has also had his throat cut but help has come too late. The heart monitor is registering a continuous line and the paramedics are packing up their equipment. I hold on to the railings to steady myself. Such a waste of a young life. I daren’t think about the anguish his family will have to endure, nor can I think about Julian’s condition and what will happen if he deteriorates. I have to send the email. Right now.
I run inside and downstairs to Julian’s study. I log myself on to my laptop. My hands and clothes are stained with Julian’s blood. Some of it has already dried and flakes on to the keyboard. I want to wash it off. I hear myself moan. I catch hold of the hysteria building in my chest.
Not now. The voice inside my head is stern, like a schoolteacher. I’m grateful for that. I make the effort to listen. Email first.
I type in the blackmailer’s address and write:
I have the witness’s name and whereabouts. I will give you the details. Do not harm my daughter.
I add my mobile-phone number and then I press ‘Send’ and watch the screen change to ‘Message sent’.
Right. OK. What now? I run back upstairs and, sidestepping the blood on the floor, up another flight to my bedroom. No time for a shower, I strip off my clothes as far as my underwear and go into the en suite. I catch a fleeting glimpse of someone in the mirror. Me. The sight makes me gasp. Putty for skin, startled eyebrows and huge, flickering eyes. And there’s a bloodstain on my cheek, like a livid birthmark spreading from chin to eye socket. I look away, repeating like a mantra, Hold it together. You can do this. Just hold it together.
I run the tap. I use soap to scrub my hands and my face, and watch Julian’s blood turn pink in the water as it rushes towards the plughole. I grab a towel and quickly dry myself, back into clean clothes and do
wn the stairs. Next. What’s next? I remember I gave my mobile phone to Lisa. I find it in her room, slip it into my pocket and go to Charlie and Jack. They’re sitting next to each other on the sofa, dressed in jeans and hoodies. Jack is completely still, as if he’s been placed in a trance. Charlie is agitating his legs up and down.
‘Boys?’
They both look up at me, painfully, as if their eyes are sore.
‘Dad is on his way to hospital. Bea has been kidnapped, but we will get her back.’
Charlie jumps to his feet. ‘We could go out on our bikes,’ he says. ‘Cycle around. We might see something.’
‘I want you both here,’ I say. He goes to protest. ‘I promise that if Mac says we need to go out on the streets looking for her, then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime we’re going to stay here. That’s an order.’
Jack nods; Charlie paces.
‘Charlie.’ I remember the dark blue Fiat. ‘Go outside to my car.’ I tell him where to find the used parking ticket. ‘Bring it back to me.’
He runs off. I sit down next to Jack and hug him. He clings to me, his face buried in my neck, his arms squeezing me tight. I cup my hands around his face and look him in the eye. ‘We’ll get through this. We will.’
I leave him on the sofa and go back to the front door. The street is teeming with police and the immediate area in front of our house is now cordoned off with incident tape. Mac has arrived. He’s nodding his head as two policemen give him details. He sees me and comes running up the steps.
‘Claire.’ His eyes are full of concern. He catches sight of the blood on the floor behind me. ‘Fuck.’ He leans forward to touch me and I step back from him.
‘Are Baker and Faraway dead?’ I say.
