by Mark Tilbury
And so, we did. To the top of Evenlode flats. The cars parked on the street looked like Matchbox models. A cool breeze blew across the roof space, like God’s whisper.
‘You can jump, or be pushed. Your choice.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Tut, tut, Michael. That’s no way to speak to an officer of the law.’
‘You’re nothing but a murderer.’
He laughed. ‘Sticks and stones, Michael. Any last requests?’
I glanced sideways at him. ‘Yeah. Go to hell and burn for all eternity.’
‘You’ve been listening to that silly old vicar too much. I don’t want to burst your bubble, but there’s no such thing as heaven and hell; that’s just a load of made up babble. Life’s for enjoyment, Michael, taking what you want, fulfilling your wishes. Of course, there’s always a price to pay. I’ve been cleaning up the mess at Woodside for ages. There must be a good twenty kids buried in that field; that’s why we moved out into Bluebell Woods with the last one. Kraft and Malloy have an insatiable appetite for sadism.’
‘They’re—’
I didn’t feel him push me. I was suddenly hurtling towards the ground, wind whooshing through my ears, sucking at my skin. Ten seconds? Twenty? Every ounce of air was knocked out of my body. There was a brief roar of pain, and then blackness. Sweet, unending blackness.
Chapter Forty-Four
No wheelchair. No trip along the tunnel. No hands helping me back into bed. It was as if I’d fallen from the top of those flats and landed right back in bed. I looked over at the wheelchair sitting dormant against the wall, illuminated by the first light of dawn spilling through the window behind me.
The emergency door was gone. No trace of it. No writing, no rusty bolt and no release bar, just a blank wall with its cracked and peeling paint. I suddenly felt very alone. Vulnerable. Almost as if my only lifeline had just been snatched away from me. The only thing linking me to my past.
In many ways, I wished I’d never come back to the hospital, that I’d been allowed to stay in my past. Perhaps even change it. Prevent the murders of all those people, or at the very least, avenge them. I would have given anything to just have an hour in a locked room with Carver, see how he faired handcuffed to a chair, whilst I smashed every bone in his body with a truncheon.
How long had I been away? Had all those years been condensed into a matter of hours? Minutes? I looked down at my body, half-expecting to see the blood-soaked clothes I’d been wearing when I’d fallen from the top of the flats. Thankfully, just my pyjamas, but my wrists still carried the marks from the handcuffs. Red and angry. I ran a finger over the broken skin, tangible evidence of my latest experience.
My thoughts turned to Paul Brady. Dear sweet Paul, the kindest man I’d ever known. Murdered by Carver and painted as a child molester by that sick bastard’s lies and actions. I wanted to shout out, demand to see someone, tell them the truth. I was innocent. Carver was the one who’d murdered my girlfriend. Taken me to the top of the flats and shoved me off. Murdered Paul and Sergeant Osbourne, too, but I needed evidence, something solid.
It was hard to believe any of this had really happened. But, it had. My mother’s earring, the book of Liam’s poems, and the red marks on my wrists were all proof of this. I thought about the constable at Feelham nick, who’d told Carver about my visit. It seemed as if the bastards were everywhere. Prison would be a living hell. It was better in some ways when I’d known nothing; the truth only made everything seem ten times worse.
The teachers at school had taught us how great England was, how we’d won the war and conquered the world, how everyone should be grateful for the British Empire, but all that stuff was a crock of shit, wasn’t it? What hope was there for society when children were being used to satisfy the depraved needs of their so-called carers? None. Rotten to the core.
I don’t know how I managed to drift off to sleep with so many terrible things running around inside my head, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, Emily was standing beside the bed in her starched, blue uniform. ‘Good morning, Michael.’
I kept my wrists hidden beneath the bedsheet. ‘What time is it?’
She checked a silver watch pinned to her uniform. ‘Eight forty-five. I’m surprised you’re awake, you’re usually zonked out until mid-morning.’
‘I had a nightmare.’ A massive understatement.
‘Poor you.’
‘What day is it?’
She smiled. ‘I thought your short-term memory was in good order?’
‘I need to know.’
‘It’s Saturday morning. Why?’
I tried to come to terms with the fact I’d just relived three years in a few hours.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better for seeing you.’
‘How’s the pain?’
‘My head hurts.’
‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m going to miss you when you go, Michael.’
I was taken aback. ‘I’ll miss you, too.’
‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you’re any more capable of murder than I am.’
I almost told her what had happened with the emergency door and the wheelchair, but I didn’t want her to think I’d completely lost my mind. ‘Thanks.’
‘You can have my phone number… if you want to stay in touch.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘I can talk to who I like outside of work. It’s got nothing to do with anyone else. I’ll visit you in prison, if you want.’
I did. More than anything. But, I didn’t want Emily to see me reduced to ashes in a prison system which would make Woodside look like a holiday home. ‘You don’t want to get involved with me. I’m bad news.’
She studied me for a while. I felt my face getting hotter. A strand of hair was tickling my face. I wanted to reach up and brush it away, but I didn’t want her to see my wrists.
‘Do you remember anything at all about your past, Michael?’
‘It’s still all blank.’
‘Perhaps it will come to you in time.’
I tried to smile. I think I managed a frown. ‘Maybe.’
She touched my arm lightly. ‘I want you to know I’m always here for you if you ever need me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it.’ She turned, and left me alone without a backward glance.
I didn’t know what I’d done to warrant Emily’s faith; it was both touching and comforting, a tiny speck of light in an ever-darkening world, and a reminder that not everyone was rotten to the core.
And then, the tears came. Warm and welcome. I cried for all that was lost, but mostly for Liam, Becky, and Paul, taken so cruelly from this world by Carver’s evil hand. Taken long before their time. I hoped with all my heart heaven existed; a place where all those who had suffered on this Earth got their final reward.
Chapter Forty-Five
I spent the next twenty-four hours in complete turmoil. Not one word from Jimmy. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. A phone call to tell me they’d convinced Hodges to dig up Liam’s grave? Or, worse, Carver to come and tell me that they’d arrested Jimmy. But, Carver was in Paris with his phony wife, so at least that wasn’t possible. Thank heavens for small mercies. One thing I’d learned whilst lying in that hospital bed was that silence wasn’t golden; it was as black and as empty as death itself.
Emily walked in and closed the door. ‘There’s some people here to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Two detectives from Thames Valley police.’ And then, quickly, as if she’d read my mind, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not Carver.’
‘Did they say what they want?’
‘They said it’s urgent.’
‘You’d better show them in.’
‘I could tell them you’re sleeping, if you want?’
‘No. It’s all right.’
Emily showed the two detectives in. ‘Michael is still suffering the after-eff
ects of his trauma, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset him.’
One of the detectives removed a trilby hat and revealed a bald head. He had a small moustache and a hooked, beak-like nose. ‘We won’t, Nurse. Rest assured.’
Emily looked at me. ‘Ring the bell if you need anything.’
I nodded.
Bald Guy said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Thomas Hart. This is Detective Constable Peter Guard. We have two gentlemen down at Oxford nick right now making statements, along with a Mr. Geoff Hodges, the groundsman at Woodside Children’s Home.’
My heart leapt over a fence. ‘You do?’
Hart nodded. He pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket, licked the tip of his pencil. ‘In your own time, Michael, I want you to tell me everything you know with regard to the body which was exhumed from the playing field at Woodside Children’s Home.’
I told them everything, right up to Carver beating Liam to death with his truncheon.
Hart looked at me for a few moments, and then said, ‘That’s quite a story, Michael.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘We believe you,’ Guard said, ‘but we still need to formally identify the deceased. We’re hoping that dental records will determine who he is.’
‘What about Carver?’ I said.
‘Don’t worry about him. This is a murder investigation, and Detective Inspector Carver is now part of that investigation.’
‘He didn’t only kill Liam.’
Hart raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
I told him about how Carver had faked Paul’s suicide and made him write a note confessing to being a child molester. How he’d knocked Osbourne off his bike and reversed back over the body. His visit to my flat. Stabbing Becky, and walking me to the top of the flats, and pushing me off.
‘Where’s Carver now?’ Guard asked his superior.
‘Weekend leave. He’s gone to Paris with his wife.’
‘Fake wife,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Hart asked.
I told him how Carver had killed his first wife. ‘He doesn’t like women. He likes boys. He’s a sick bastard. He beat his first wife to death, with the same truncheon he killed Liam with. She came home and caught him in bed with a boy. Carver fitted the kid up with her murder. He took great pleasure in telling me all about it.’
Hart turned to Detective Guard. ‘This just gets better.’
‘Do you want me to get a warrant issued for Carver’s arrest?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got a better idea.’
‘He’s also got this photo album,’ I said. ‘It’s got pictures of his victims in it.’
‘Did he tell you this?’
‘He showed me it.’
Guard let out a sigh between clenched teeth. ‘Jesus.’
Hart snapped his notebook shut and addressed his constable. ‘I want you to stay here. I’ll go and have a word with the superintendent, put a few suggestions to him, see what he thinks is the best way to take this forward.’
Guard nodded.
When the Detective Inspector was gone, I asked Guard what would happen next.
‘We need to just sit tight. Play it by ear.’
‘I’m meant to be going to remand tomorrow.’
‘That’s not going to happen now, Michael.’
His words did little to reassure me. I didn’t think they truly understood how dangerous and manipulative Carver was. Detective Guard sat next to the bed and flicked through my car magazine. The photos of our weekend in Brighton dropped out. He picked them up off the bed and studied the one of Becky sitting on the pier. ‘Is this your girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He put the photos down, seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then said, ‘We’ll get him, Michael.’
I wished I shared his optimism. We sat in silence. Guard leafed through the car magazine. About half an hour later, Emily came into the room and told me Jimmy was here to see me. ‘Shall I show him in?’
I looked at Guard for approval. He put the magazine down and stood up. ‘I’ll go grab a coffee.’
Jimmy looked haggard and unshaven. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He nodded at Guard as they passed in the doorway. He flopped down in the chair and ran a hand across his bald head, seemingly smoothing out imaginary hair.
‘What happened?’
He kept rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase what he’d seen. When he spoke, his voice was low and expressionless. Almost robotic. ‘We got to Woodside around half nine. Walked along the edge of the building and found Hodges’ cottage. I kept thinking someone would see us and call the cops. There were lights on in the main building. By the time we knocked on the door, I was having second thoughts, wondering what I’d do if two strangers came to my door telling tales of murder and a body buried in a field.’
‘I really appreciate what you’ve—’
Jimmy held up a hand. ‘It’s nothing compared to what you’ve had to deal with, Michael. Nothing at all. Anyway, Hodges finally answered the door. I told him we were there on behalf of you and Liam Truman. Said it was a matter of life and death and asked if we could come in and talk.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t look too keen at first, but he finally agreed. Between you, me, and the gatepost, he’d had a few drinks. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, which might have gone some way to lowering his guard. That and the fags we took him. Anyway, I didn’t waste any time. I told him everything I knew. How you’d buried Liam at the bottom of the field. What Kraft, Malloy, and Carver had done. I didn’t spare him any of the details.’
‘Did he believe you?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘When I was finished, he banged the mug down on the table, and fixed me with bloodshot eyes. He said he knew his wheelbarrow and shovels had been used that night, but he couldn’t figure out why. It was hardly something kids would do for a prank. Let off stink bombs, or squirt glue in the padlocks, maybe, but take his stuff and go gardening? No way. Anyway, we waited until it was pitch-dark, and then went to the bottom of the field. We took turns, two digging, one holding the torch. Hodges kept lighting up when it was his turn to hold the torch. I thought someone would spot us. It took us well over an hour. Terry found Liam’s rucksack first. And then, well….’
I imagined Liam’s body rotting away in that cold grave for all these years. An unknown boy in an unmarked grave. Treated like a piece of rubbish and discarded like a piece of rubbish.
‘Hodges had a phone in the cottage. He called 999 and told the dispatcher what we’d found. We had to show the cops the place where we’d found the body. A few people were spilling out of the building by then. The police cordoned off the grave with tape. Me, Terry, and Hodges were taken to the police station. We had to go through our stories, answer all these questions, mostly about how we actually knew the body was buried there. I kept telling them how you’d got your memory back, remembered everything. In the end, my mind seemed to blank out. They let us go home yesterday afternoon, and took me back in for questioning again last night.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for this, Jimmy.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. The good thing is, I think they believed us.’
I told Jimmy about my last trip along the tunnel. How Carver had murdered Becky, Paul, and Sergeant Osbourne. I also told him what Carver said about killing his first wife. How he’d shown me his gruesome photograph album.
Jimmy took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. ‘I’m not a religious man, Michael, but I’m going to church tonight. Pray the cops get enough evidence to send that bastard away for life. Throw away the fucking key.’
‘Amen to that,’ I said. ‘Amen to that.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Detective Inspector Hart returned to the hospital just before lights out. He told Guard to go home and get a few hours’ sleep. Guard didn’t look in any condition to argue. He closed the door behind him.
Hart sat down next
to the bed. ‘How are you bearing up, Michael?’
Did he want the truth, or the stock answer you always give when someone asks that dumbest of questions? ‘I’ll tell you how I’m bearing up, Detective Inspector: like someone who’s been dumped underneath a ton of shit, and asked if he can still smell the roses.’
‘If it’s any consolation, Michael, we’ll do our level best to nail Carver.’
To be honest, it wasn’t. Although I would take a lot of pleasure watching Carver get what he had coming to him, it could never make up for what he’d done. No punishment could fit the crime. Becky was still dead. Liam was still dead. Paul was still dead. And that bastard would get a nice comfortable cell for the rest of his life. Probably even get special privileges. And that was only assuming the cops got enough evidence to prove his guilt.
‘And what happens if he gets away with it?’
‘He won’t.’
‘And you know that for certain, do you?’
‘We believe we’ve got enough evidence to nail him. There was a pair of glasses in a rucksack in your friend’s grave. Luckily for us that rucksack was waterproof. There was a perfectly formed fingerprint in the blood on one lens. It matches Carver’s.’
‘Really?’
Hart nodded. ‘We went to see Carver tonight when he got back from Paris. Told him to go straight to the hospital in the morning, and escort you to remand.’
‘What if someone tips him off about Woodside?’
‘Only myself and the superintendent know about the fingerprint. He’s not going to know we’re on to him. Even if he does, my guess is he’ll just shrug it off, won’t believe there’s any evidence to point the finger at him. The superintendent’s pulling the strings on this one, Michael.’
I didn’t feel very reassured. Anything could go wrong. I reminded Hart of my trip to Feelham Police Station, and Sergeant Osbourne’s death.
‘I’m well aware of what he’s capable of. Don’t worry, we’ve got plain clothes officers watching his house. If he does anything other than go to bed tonight, we’ll nick him.’
‘Why don’t you just arrest him, anyway?’
