by P. D. Viner
‘Free?’
‘Yes a freedom, without the past dragging him down to a kind of hell. Without desire for this woman crippling him. He wanted to be set free.’
‘And you made him this …’
‘Lover. Yes. I made her for him.’
‘Knowing what he had done?’
‘Believing he wanted to be something else. Something better.’
‘How long did it take?’
‘A few days. Most of the time he was there, watching – advising, commenting on the skin tone, the hair colouring.’
Tom pauses, his brain racing. He had been right, these cases all tied up, everything led to George Fforde-Merrison.
‘Can you describe him for me, physically?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What do you remember most about him?’
Pause. ‘He had the most beautiful penis I had ever seen.’
Tom knows that description won’t make it into his case notes.
‘His name – George Fforde-Merrison?’
‘No. No that was not the name he used. It was …’ The old man dredges his memory. ‘Larkshead – that was it, George Larkshead.’
Twelve
Tuesday 18 October 1999
Watery sun kisses Tom’s cheek as he sits in the grounds of the chapel. He wears his dress uniform – the creases are immaculate. He picks up his coffee cup from the side of the bench and finishes the final bitter dregs. He did not sleep last night. After he left Maarten Meyer he rushed back to Schiphol and paid an extra £150 to get an earlier flight home. From Heathrow he called Drake, but the man wouldn’t accept his call. It’s funny, last night in Terminal Three at Heathrow Airport, Tom Bevans had been the angriest he had ever been. He had screamed into the phone, he had kicked at a wall, he had bellowed in rage and frustration. Then he had made another phone call and taken a cab to New Scotland Yard. He had crossed the line from team player to … what? Drake and Ashe would say team wrecker, snitch, nark—
‘Whistle-blower?’ asks Dani.
‘Not sure,’ he thinks. Except, at 10.a.m., sitting in the chapel grounds and waiting for the Brindley-Black family he is calm and focused – a different man.
He is an hour early, there is another funeral happening now. He watches a single figure who also sits on a bench outside the chapel. She wears a blue fleece coat and carries a two-litre bottle of Coke. There seems something awfully sad about her. Milling around the doors are about a hundred people, all waiting to go inside to pay their respects. Tom is amazed at some of the outfits – so many men are in mismatched grey and blue suits. Many women do wear black, but a lot have inappropriate cocktail dresses that come just below the underwear line and squeeze their boobs up and out. It looks like a parody of a funeral. He wonders who it can be for. A tall man dressed in black mourning dress appears and ushers them into the chapel, just as the hearse rounds the corner. It parks and the pallbearers get out. One of them walks over to the woman sitting alone and kisses her on the top of the head. Then he returns to the others and gently they lift the casket and bear it inside. The woman waiting makes no move to follow. She continues to sit in silent vigil. Who is she? Tom wonders if she is an estranged partner – a lost sister – the black sheep returned. He will never know.
He looks at his watch. The memorial for Charlie Brindley-Black is at 11 a.m. He is early, in part because he needs to snatch just an hour of peace before the final storm crashes down – and also because he thinks George Larkshead may make an appearance.
He sits and listens to the service going on inside, he can’t hear the priest talk but he hears the congregation intone the Lord’s Prayer and later they sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The music they exit to is sung by Matt Monroe. Tom recognises his voice as he was one of his mum’s favourites. As one group of grieving people leave, another mourning tribe arrives. They have no casket, the body is yet to be released – there is no hearse and no funeral director. Tom can see Valerie at the centre, heavily supported by her sister and next to her …
‘Christ.’ Tom’s breathing stops. A beautiful, beautiful woman with gold eyes and light hair. She looks so like Charlie and her aunt. Peas in a pod, Sophie Brindley had said, Helena and Lucy and Charlie. Tom hadn’t made the connection before – physical peas in a pod, she looks just like Charlie. One. There is one of Sophie’s children there – Helena or Lucy – but where is the other? Tom feels his heart start to race and walks towards them. Valerie sees him and raises her hand to him. Sophie sees her sister’s movement and follows her line of sight. She smiles at Tom … but then the expression on her face freezes. Sophie Brindley looks suddenly scared.
‘Why are you here, DI Bevans?’ she calls to him as he walks forward.
‘You said I should—’
‘But your sergeant telephoned before we left. He said you would be around in a minute to collect the book with the photograph – the one of Jennifer.’
‘I never …’
‘Lucy stayed behind to give it to you.’
The world pitches. Sophie stumbles, Valerie with her. Tom is already turning away from them. ‘Call 999.’ He shouts back at them as he sprints away. He was never as fast as Dani but he runs as if the devil is at his heels. The house isn’t far, three minutes maybe. His arms pump like pistons as he eats up the distance between him and Lucy Brindley. His coat is swinging around him, he fishes the radio out of the pocket and discards the coat. His lungs are starting to boil. He slows slightly and brings the radio up to his mouth.
‘Patterson. The murderer may be at the Brindley-Black home. Potential victim there too.’
Static. ‘Fuck. On our way.’
Tom drops his arm and clips the radio onto his trousers – thank God he has the radio.
‘Let her be okay. Lucy, Lucy stay with me.’
He speeds up again. His throat burns with the effort of running, his knees are hurting – tears run down his cheeks. This is no time for sadness, he tells himself. Two more roads. Adrenalin powers through him, he flies towards his fear. He sees the knife slicing her belly. His stride stretches open, a bus is coming – he runs out in front, there is a squeal of brakes, he flies past. The air full of profanity. He can see the house and the front door, it’s open. A man is stepping through it, about to leave the house, he has a round face with spectacles, short thinning blond hair. About five feet seven inches, paunchy, early forties maybe. The man hears the brakes of the bus and looks towards the commotion. He sees Tom racing towards him, his face turns white. He jumps back inside and slams the front door. Tom is there seconds later, he doesn’t pause but brings his boot up and the door shatters. Wood splinters and the lock flies away and bounces off the wall.
‘George!’ he yells – shredding what was left of his voice. ‘Come out, it’s all over.’
There is a scream from upstairs.
‘LUCY!’ Tom yells and rushes toward her voice. ‘LUCY!’
He has no sense of fear, no sense to wait for help, but runs towards the sound – he will save this girl, he will – the man appears at the top of the stairs just as Tom gets there. Tom closes his fist and throws it forward – his whole body moving like a train – he doesn’t see the glint of silver, just feels the blade slide into his belly. His fist bounces pathetically off George’s shoulder. He is close enough to smell the man’s breath, see the twist of his mouth. The momentum has taken him into the killer’s arms, he is stuck like a pig on the thin blade, it slices into him like a hot knife through butter. George’s other hand slides around him, holding him steady for the kill. Tom feels the man’s shoulder start to move – he will gather his strength and then flick the knife sideways. It will cut through his abdomen and he will bleed to death like a man committing hara-kiri.
Tom tries to rock back but the man holds him. He smiles. Tom can feel George’s erection against him, maybe that is why the killer pauses. The pause is all he needs. Tom moves his hand into his jacket pocket and feels the thin disc of the ban the bomb badge st
ill inside – his good-luck charm with its sharp pin. He pulls it out and stabs it into George’s hand.
‘Agh!’ he yells and releases his grip.
Tom pushes back with all his might, the blade in him starts to move sideways, it burns and burns and – is out of his belly. He is in free-fall backwards. Everything is in slow motion. He grabs at his stomach as blood starts to pump – there is a spray in mid-air, like red rain. From somewhere far off there is a siren. For a second he is weightless, like an astronaut or a bird in flight, arcing back and—
‘Christ!’ He cries out with the all-consuming pain.
He lands head and shoulder on the stairs, he crunches and starts to flip over, he tries to turn, raise his head, his arm catches on the banister, nearly twists it off, he slams back into the stairs and slide-crashes down them, landing in a heap at the bottom. From the road there is a squeal of brakes and slamming doors. The cavalry are coming. George peers down the stairs, Tom can only see him in a haze – he is a sitting duck. The man could jump down and kill him with a single strike – but he makes no move to. Is he crying? Suddenly feet are pounding on the pavement outside. Tom looks to the front door for a second and … the killer is gone.
Tom lies at the bottom of the stairs, pressing his hands into his stomach – he can feel the wet and sticky blood, it coats them, the pulse pulse pulse of his heart pushing it out. He tries to exert more pressure but it hurts so much he wants to scream, in fact, he may be screaming, he can’t tell, his head spins – keep pressure – but his hands are numb, his arms and …
Thirteen
Tuesday 18 October 1999
His throat has been sandpapered. He shifts slightly and his stomach feels like it will split apart.
‘Christ,’ he croaks.
‘You’re my hero,’ Dani-in-his-head tells him.
He ignores her and tries to open his eyes. They don’t want to. Suddenly Tom feels a wet sponge placed against his lips and squeezed, he sucks greedily. Then the sponge licks over his face and into his eyes. The lids separate a little, enough to see a blur of light and shape. It hurts.
‘I’ll call a doctor.’
Tom doesn’t recognise the voice. Then black washes in again and he slips away.
He comes round again, two hours later. The pain in his belly is still there but the throbbing headache has lessened. This time he can make out a figure sitting in the chair – slightly in the shadows.
‘Dani?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ DI Bennett leans forward into the light. ‘It’s Danny Bennett. How are you, Tom?’ It’s the first time he has ever used Tom’s first name.
‘Lucy Brindley, is she safe?’
‘Thanks to you she is. Very scared but not hurt.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Tom feels a wave of relief flood over him. ‘Did you get him?’ Bennett scrunches his face up like he can smell something bad. ‘No. No we didn’t.’
‘Fuck.’
‘But don’t worry, we will.’
‘Do we know why he went to the Brindley-Black home?’
‘Well…’ Bennet half-shrugs. ‘He had locked Lucy in a cupboard, but hadn’t touched her. She said that all he kept asking her about was the book. On the Road, and the photograph of Jenifer. She said he was desperate to get it.’
‘Did she give it to him?’
‘No. No she didn’t. She seems quite a stubborn person.’
‘Good. What about his house?’
‘We went there first thing, just like you ordered, and turned it over. We took his wife and two kids into custody.’
‘He’s married?’
‘Pretty wealthy, too. SOCO are in there now, have been all day. We found the doll just like you said, it was in a sealed room behind his home office.’
‘But he’s still free?’
‘For now. But great work, DI Bevans.’
‘Drake stripped me of that, I’m—’
‘The golden boy. You going over Drake’s head to the deputy commissioner worked. Drake was suspended this afternoon pending an internal review. Someone from Yorkshire’s been drafted in to babysit while we see what happens. But you’re the man of the moment.’
You brown-nosing bastard, thinks Tom. But he says, ‘Just as long as Lucy Brindley is safe, that they are all safe.’
In the back of his head Dani sighs.
‘Oh, Tom’ Bennett pulls something from under his chair. ‘We found this at the house, in the sealed room. SOCO have been over it and cleared it for release. I thought you might want—’
‘What is it?’
Bennett looks a little blank. ‘We’re not exactly sure – we thought it might have been a diary at first but …’ He hands it over to Tom. ‘I think it’s a novel he was writing.’
Tom traces his fingers across the cover of the book. ‘The Flying Carpet’. He opens it, inside, is page after page of dense spidery scrawl.
‘Thanks, DI Bennett. Good work.’
Bennett smiles, looking pleased. ‘I’ll get off.’ He says as he rises. Tom doesn’t hear – he is already drawn inside the book, can see through the eyes of the killer. There is a car in the drive of a grand house. Underfoot is gravel and the sky is grey and angry.
The Flying Carpet
By George Larkshead
Sunday 19 December 1971
The rope cut deep into my fingers – red trenches that burned. I tried to loop it around, just as Papa Joe had showed me, but my hands didn’t work like they were supposed to. I had to peel off the gloves, but the cold quickly stripped my hands of all feeling. They became thick heavy weights dragging down at the ends of my arms. The rain turned to sleet, icy-slush that licked at my face – burning cold on my cheeks. I tried again, and again.
‘You fucking bastard …’ my mother screamed from inside the house and I winced, frightened by her anger. In the car’s side-windows, I could see myself reflected: a pale scared boy with large, sad eyes, and a thin mouth that puckered like I’d been sucking lemons. I hardly recognised myself.
‘… tell it to your fucking whore.’ My mother screamed.
I looked through my reflection to the suitcases and bags stacked, thrown and wedged onto the back seat. That was the day we left for good.
‘… fuck you!’
I looked back to the only home I had known for my twelve years on earth. Behind it, I could see the black smoke curling up into the dying light of the winter’s afternoon sky. She had burnt everything of my father’s: clothes, books, records – all gone. There was a final scream and I heard the telephone splinter against the wall, shards of plastic exploded against the glass of the French windows like a sudden rainstorm. The front door opened – she swarmed through it, not bothering to close it behind her, not caring that the rain rushed in to hide there. It was her house no longer, let it spoil. Her long hair was taken by the wind and streamed behind like a kite. Her eyes blazed fiercely; framed by black steaks of mascara that made her seem like a silent movie queen on the rampage. I looked back to the rope and the rug I needed to lash to the roof. I was almost out of time – she would be at the car in seconds.
‘Please …’ I begged my useless fingers to work. I tried again to loop the rope, tie a knot but—
‘George.’
‘Mum, I hav—’
‘In the fucking car. Now!’
I folded a loop of string through the other, it had to be tight, but tears froze on my cheek as I yanked with all my might, using fingers that could not feel anything. It tightened a little but was still too loose and flabby.
‘GEORGE!’ She threw open the passenger door, hitting me in the leg. ‘Get in.’
‘The rug isn—’ I began but she drowned me out by turning the key to start the engine. I knew, deep in my heart, that she would leave me there, all alone. I jumped inside.
‘Your fucking father …’ She jabbed her foot down hard, the car sprang forward, gravel and grit spat away from the wheels, as the car accelerated out-of-control down the drive. I gripped the leather seat, felt my f
ingers come back to life with an explosion of pins and needles. The car slewed towards the gates that led to the outside world, away from our home. On the TV for months they had kept saying clunk-click every trip, use a seatbelt – it saves lives. But our car didn’t have one. I remember I desperately wished it had that day. I did not feel safe. Above my head I could hear the carpet scrape on the roof, sliding from side to side, like Harry Houdini loosening his bonds.
‘Mum—’
‘Not now.’ Her eyes burnt as she turned the searchlight of their rage on me. She gripped the steering wheel so tight I thought it would snap. ‘Be useful and light me a fucking cigarette.’ She said.
Her bag was on the backseat; I had to turn to reach behind me. The wheels clattered on the gravel and I slid on the shiny leather, banging into her arm.
‘Be more fucking careful.’
‘Sorry.’ I remember biting my lip, desperate to keep the tears away, knowing she would hate me all the more for my weakness. I pulled the bag off the back seat, opened it and fished inside for the packet of cigarettes and lighter. When I found them, I took out one of the long white sticks and put it into my mouth. Then I lit it with the lighter and drew some air in – the tip flared red and I coughed.
‘Don’t be such a bloody baby – you’re almost thirteen. I was smoking twenty a day at your age,’ she yelled. I wanted to tell her how I hated it, that it made me feel so dirty - but the car hit a pothole and kicked hard to the left. The carpet roared above my head – I knew I should tell her, make her stop the car and check the roof again. I knew I should… but I was scared.
‘Another useless fucking man,’ she mumbled to herself, but I heard it. She ground her teeth and the accelerator, taking the turn onto the lane at speed – my dad had always stopped there, said it was unsafe to pull out – blind spot, he had said. She hadn’t stopped, instead she skidded out through the gates, off the gravel drive and onto the main road. I could smell the rubber and brake pad, acrid in my throat. The carpet rasped above us – sawing back and forth. She heard nothing, lost in her fears of the future and her rage over the past. But the rug sawing away at its bonds was all I could hear.
