In the Dark

by Mark Billingham

‘Do you need a lift tomorrow?’ Kelly asked. ‘I wasn’t sure where the cars would be leaving from.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Helen said. ‘I’m staying at my dad’s tonight and we’ll drive up together in the morning.’

  ‘Well, anything I can do, you know you’ve only to ask.’

  ‘You’re doing plenty.’

  ‘This is really hard,’ Kelly said. He spread out pieces of paper in front of him on the table and pointed at one. ‘You know how much Paul loved his music, right?’ He read out a poem that someone called Charlie Daniels had written when his friend Ronnie Van Zandt had died. ‘He was the lead singer of Lynyrd Skynyrd,’ Kelly explained. ‘Died in a plane crash, so . . . both terrible accidents, you know? I thought it might be appropriate.’

  Helen thought it wasn’t bad, told Kelly it was nice, but that she wasn’t sure Paul could ever be described as a ‘proud bird’.

  Kelly nodded and pushed it to one side. He showed her something he’d found on the Internet, a poem by Charlotte Brontë that Helen thought was thankfully unsentimental, and a simple Gaelic blessing, which he told her had been read at his father’s funeral. ‘That one’s got a music angle as well,’ he said. ‘John Lydon used it in a song, so . . .’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘So, which do you think?’

  Helen hadn’t really been concentrating as she should have been. She hadn’t checked about confidentiality with Jeff Moody, but now that the operation had come to an end with Paul’s death, she assumed there wouldn’t be any problem. It wasn’t as though she were planning to put an announcement in the Police Review. She was trying hard to keep the smile off her face but clearly not succeeding.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That stuff you told me about Paul keeping things to himself, remember? Not being sure what he was up to or whatever?’ She told Kelly about the visit from Moody, about the operation Paul had needed to keep so secret. Describing it out loud for the first time, she could hear the enthusiasm in her own voice; the pride in what Paul had been doing. It was something she had grown almost unfamiliar with.

  The Irishman looked shell-shocked. ‘Cagey bastard,’ he said, finally. A grin spread slowly across his face, too. ‘There I was thinking he was knocking off some WPC.’

  ‘Trust me, I’d’ve known about that.’

  ‘Yeah, Sue’s the same,’ Kelly said. ‘I’ve only got to think about it.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘So . . . how long?’

  ‘A year and a bit. Moody said it had been going very well. He was obviously good at being sneaky.’

  ‘Certainly had me fooled.’ Kelly shook his head, dabbing at what was left on his plate with a fried slice. ‘Christ, it makes sense now. No wonder we didn’t see much of him in the office. CID must have seemed seriously bloody humdrum. Dangerous game as well, I should imagine. Some of these bastards can be well nasty if you get too close.’

  Helen wiped grease from her fingers. ‘Yeah, well, he never took the easy option. Wouldn’t have ended up with me if he had.’

  ‘He did well on that score,’ Kelly said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  They swapped stories for a few minutes, and Helen told him how hard it had been finding the time to make all the arrangements. Kelly went quiet after a while, pushing aside his plate and staring down at the printed eulogies.

  ‘Did you ever think he might be bent, Gary?’

  Kelly looked up at her and nodded. ‘For about five minutes.’

  That made Helen feel better.

  ‘You did too, right?’ he asked.

  She told him about tracking down Linnell and Shepherd, and the secret file on the laptop that she couldn’t access. Explained how screwed-up and stupid she’d felt, without going into detail about what had happened at the supermarket the day before.

  ‘Look, it’s done and dusted now, all right? You’ve got to think about the baby and the future. You’re shot of it all now.’

  ‘Well, I will be when I’ve got rid of that computer.’ She smiled. ‘Bloody thing’s stashed away like some secret pile of porno mags.’ That reminded her of something. ‘Listen, I’d like you to have Paul’s guitar. I know you’re as mad about music as he was, so . . .’

  Kelly nodded slowly. ‘That’s grand, Helen. I’d like that.’

  ‘Maybe you should do a song tomorrow.’

  ‘He’d never forgive me,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Talking of which . . .’

  They went back to the pieces of paper, determined to make a decision. She asked him to read the Brontë poem again and concentrated hard this time. It was oddly life-affirming, which she knew some people might find odd, considering the circumstances, but she liked the idea. It seemed appropriate, considering how close she was to bringing a new life into the world.

  When Kelly had finished, Helen asked for the sheet of paper and read again the lines that had touched her most:

  What though Death at times steps in

  And calls our Best away?

  What though sorrow seems to win,

  O’er hope, a heavy sway?

  ‘Let’s go with this one,’ she said, passing back the poem.

  Kelly seemed pleased. ‘Good call,’ he said. ‘He was our “Best”, after all, right?’

  Helen wasn’t going to argue.

  The pub looked good, he reckoned. Better than good: classy. The scaffolding and the skip had gone, the windows had been cleaned to let in some light, and Frank reckoned he was just about ready to look at potential buyers for the place.

  He walked around the empty room, his footsteps echoing off the polished wooden floor. He ran a hand along the length of the bar and stared up at the light-fittings and the new mouldings on the ceiling. They’d made a fine job of it, no question; ensured he’d get the price he was looking for. He might even pop back for a jar when the place was up and running.

  They’d put stained-glass panels above that window shattered by the brick on the day Paul had visited. It was a nice detail. He walked across to where the two of them had eaten their lunch on a trestle table; bits of shell and vinegar running all over the plastic.

  ‘It’s just a favour,’ Paul had said, and he’d mentioned something stupid about honour. It wouldn’t have made any difference in the end, given what had happened, but he still wished they’d parted on better terms; that Paul had thought better of him. It left a nasty taste.

  Hindsight gave everyone twenty-twenty vision, Frank knew that, but still, he wished he’d done more then, when it would have been easy. That he didn’t have to make up for it as he was now, after the event. It would have cost him a damn sight less, that was for sure.

  And hadn’t he promised himself all those years before that he would never let it happen again?

  There was a driver waiting outside, and Frank was about ready for the off when he noticed brown streaks bleeding through the gloss around the door. He looked closer, then marched through to the other bar to check the woodwork in there. The cheeky beggars hadn’t bothered with a second coat, and there was even a bristle or two trapped in the paint.

  He called the contractor and let him know what he thought. ‘I’m not having it,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  In heavily accented English, the contractor tried to explain that his team had already moved on to another job. Frank told him that he didn’t give a toss, that unless someone was round there with a brush in his hand within the hour, the only thing he’d be contracting would be seriously unpleasant.

  He couldn’t bear things not being right. Controlling, obsessive, it wasn’t important what you called it; to Frank’s mind, it came down to caring, plain and simple. Didn’t matter what it was, only an amateur was content to leave a job unfinished.

  Helen ran the bath good and hot. Lowering herself in slowly, she decided that a few of those wall rails and handles would have come in handy; some of that stuff they advertised in the middle of the afternoon, when the old and infirm were supposed to be watching TV. A walk-in bath even
. She remembered laughing when Paul had seen the ad one day and asked how they worked. Why all the water didn’t run out when you opened the door.

  She was glad she’d decided to spend the night at home and have her dad pick her up first thing instead. He’d sounded disappointed when she’d called to tell him, but she knew she’d be far more relaxed on her own. As relaxed as she was likely to get, anyway.

  ‘Whatever makes you happy,’ her dad had said, meaning ‘less miserable’.

  She’d brought the radio in from the bedroom and settled back for a long soak. Her belly rose out of the water and she flicked tiny waves across it with her fingers, watching little streams running down from her distended belly-button. She talked softly to the baby for a few minutes, rubbing a soapy hand across the part where she thought the head was, and when her breasts started to leak a little, she wiped away the creamy trails with a flannel.

  She knew that things would start to get a lot better, if she could just get through tomorrow . . .

  At her mother’s funeral, she and Jenny had been able to get through it together. She knew that this one would be very different. Yes, Jenny would be there, and a few close friends, and she knew that Paul’s family would find it every bit as hard as she did. But they would have each other to lean on, to share in the pain and the numbness. Helen knew that in all the ways that really mattered, she would be spending the day alone.

  Just her, and the unborn child to whom she would have to explain it all one day.

  Christ, she hoped it was nothing like her mum’s funeral. Paul’s mother would probably take great pride in laying on a decent event afterwards, but curling sandwiches and relatives whose names nobody could remember seemed almost unavoidable. Unless they did things differently on occasions like this one; after deaths like Paul’s. When nobody in their right mind would laugh at an inappropriate moment, or smile wistfully at memories of a long innings.

  She couldn’t even rely on booze to help her through it all, as she and Jenny had done at their mum’s.

  She rubbed her belly again. Said, ‘Your fault.’

  On the radio they started to play an old Oasis track that she’d loved when she was a student; an off-your-face, party anthem. She leaned forward to turn it up, then stopped when she heard a noise. Like something being dropped out on the landing between the flats or a door closing.

  She turned off the radio and listened.

  Perhaps the noise had come from upstairs. Jesus, had she forgotten to close the door properly when she’d come in? Maybe someone had just gone out next door.

  There was no mistaking the next noise: a drawer closing; the one above the living-room cupboard. She knew that rasp, like a sharp intake of breath as it caught on the runner.

  Like her own . . .

  She strained to hear above the drumming in her chest and the lapping of the water around her, which suddenly seemed deafening. She listened as the door to the bedroom was opened. The steps were light, but she heard the boards give as someone approached the bed.

  There was nowhere to run. She had to protect herself.

  Moving as gently and silently as she could, Helen inched herself along the bath until she had enough room to manoeuvre. She leaned down on the edge, one hand on either side to distribute the weight evenly, and began to haul herself out.

  Carefully, little by little . . .

  It seemed obvious that whoever had entered the flat had no idea she was there, and she wanted to keep it that way. At least until she could get to the bathroom door and lock it. She was halfway out when her hand slipped and she crashed back into the bath, crying out as her head cracked against the edge, and sending torrents of water up the walls and onto the floor.

  The pain in her head was forgotten in a second as she fought to get herself upright, to control the rapidly mounting tide of panic. She knew that whoever was in her bedroom must have heard her and would know now that they were not alone.

  She listened.

  For a few long seconds there was silence, but then she heard the footsteps again, coming out of the bedroom, no more than ten feet away. She heard the intruder move slowly down the hall and stop outside the bathroom door. She stared at the handle, cold suddenly and shivering; knowing that she could not reach the door before whoever was outside had opened it.

  The decision made itself: she reached towards the end of the bath as she began to shout, her hand closing around a glass candle-holder. ‘Fuck off! Just get the fuck out of here now.’ She hurled the glass bowl at the door, closing her eyes for a second as it shattered, then grabbing frantically at anything else she could reach; anything that had weight. Shampoo and conditioner bottles, a wooden back-scrubber, the soap-dish, the soap itself; screaming as she threw them one by one against the door. ‘I swear I’ll kill you. You come in here and I’ll kill you . . .’

  She felt the rush come up through her as she moved, knowing that she was ready to do it. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip until she could taste blood, and when there was nothing left to throw she began to kick and thrash, her voice cracking with fury as she beat her hands against the water. ‘Fuck off. Just fuck off and leave us alone . . .’

  For a minute, perhaps two, there was silence. The remaining water began to settle around her. She was about to make a lunge for the lock when she heard a voice outside the door, still close to it.

  ‘Helen? Is everything all right?’

  A familiar intonation; a trace of Geordie.

  Deering.

  THIRTY-TWO

  While Helen got changed, Deering waited outside the bedroom door, explaining what he’d seen when he’d arrived outside the block five minutes before:

  ‘I was just about to ring the bell when this bloke comes tearing out.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘No idea,’ Deering said. ‘He was wearing a hoodie and he kept his head down. Average height, I suppose, but I couldn’t tell you much beyond that. The door almost smacked me in the bloody face when he came crashing through it.’

  Helen had put on tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt and was about to get her dressing gown from the back of the door when she felt the shaking start in her legs. She sat on the bed and waited for it to stop.

  ‘There didn’t seem much point letting the door slam shut again, you know, so I just sneaked in before it closed. When I got upstairs, your door was wide open and I heard you screaming.’

  Whoever had been in her flat could have got into the block the same way, Helen supposed, she’d done it often enough herself, but that didn’t explain how he’d got through the flat’s front door. She knew very well she had shut it properly. She started to think about anyone who might have had a set of keys. Jenny, and there had been a few workmen over the years. Perhaps Paul had given someone a set?

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She looked up at the bedroom door. ‘I’m OK. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘I’ll go and make some tea . . .’

  By the time Deering brought it through from the kitchen, Helen was on the sofa in the living room; her legs were up and her knees pulled close to her chest. She wrapped her dressing gown a bit tighter around herself and watched as Deering cast a semi-professional eye around the place. It didn’t take him long to reach the same conclusion as she had.

  ‘Who else had keys?’

  She gave him a few names but was finding it difficult to think straight.

  ‘You should make a list when you’re feeling up to it,’ he said.

  She nodded towards the bathroom door. ‘I made a hell of a mess in there.’

  ‘You got rid of him.’

  ‘There’s glass everywhere.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out.’ He started to get up but stopped when Helen waved away the idea. He saw her jump slightly and watched an odd smile spread across her face. ‘Are you all right?’

  Helen had slipped her hands inside the dressing gown and was pressing them tight to her belly. ‘The baby’s got hiccoughs,’ she said. The smile grew
wider, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I was worried after what happened. When I slipped.’ She dug out a tissue from her dressing-gown pocket, then twitched again and laughed.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Deering said. ‘Poor little bugger’s had a bit of a shock. I’d have a damn sight more than bloody hiccoughs.’ He stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ Helen said, remembering what she’d shouted when she’d been trying to get rid of the man outside the door. When she’d felt ready to kill him. Remembering that she’d said ‘us’.

  Leave us alone.

  Deering pointed. ‘You’ve cut your lip.’

  Helen licked at it, then dabbed her mouth with the tissue.

  Deering sipped at his tea and looked around again. ‘Can you tell if anything’s been taken?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, but he didn’t really have much of a chance.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s not a lot to take: TV, DVD player, I suppose. It’s not like there’s a secret stash of jewels.’ Helen had spoken to enough victims of burglary over the years, and once they’d got over the shock, most of them talked about feeling vulnerable and violated. She wondered if that was what might be waiting for her down the line, or if it would simply fail to register, when measured against the bottomless reserves of grief and guilt. ‘It’s hard to feel particularly lucky at the moment, though.’

  Deering nodded. ‘You’ve not had the best few weeks, have you?’

  Helen laughed, though it quickly became a shiver and she pulled the dressing gown tighter.

  ‘I don’t want to teach my grandmother to suck eggs and all that, but you should really call the police.’

  ‘I know.’ She was not exactly relishing the prospect. In all likelihood she would be treated with due respect and sensitivity, but a couple of cack-handed probationers was always a distinct possibility.

  ‘They’ll come quickly at any rate,’ Deering said. ‘If you explain your circumstances.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. I think there’s a gig at the Academy tonight.’