by Shaun Hutson
‘Noise coming from number six?’ Mercuriadis said, his brow furrowing. ‘But that’s, that was Miss Regan’s room. It’s empty.’
‘Well, there’s some fucking noisy mice in there then, that’s all I’ve got to say. Are you going to check it out?’
‘I’ll get the key,’ the landlord said, taking a bunch from a drawer in the bureau behind him. ‘Is the noise still going on?’
‘It finished about five minutes ago,’ Monroe told him. ‘I’ve been banging on your door for two minutes at least.’
Mercuriadis selected a key from the ring and followed his irate tenant along the hall towards the stairs to the first floor landing.
‘Perhaps one of her bloody relatives had a spare key,’ Monroe said, stalking up the stairs two at a time.
‘Keep your voice down, please, Mr Monroe,’ the landlord asked, climbing the steps after him. ‘Think of the other tenants.’
‘Fuck the other tenants. I should think they’re all awake by now, anyway, if they heard that bloody banging,’ Monroe snapped, reaching the first landing.
Mercuriadis shook his head reproachfully and glanced at Monroe’s broad back. Such profanity. It was difficult to believe the man was an employee of one of the City’s top accountants. The landlord wondered if he spoke to his clients in the same way.
They began ascending the second flight of steps, the older man wheezing slightly as he struggled to keep up.
As they drew closer to the top of the stairs the landlord cocked an ear for any sound but he heard nothing.
Monroe was standing outside the door of number six.
‘I’m going back to bed,’ he snapped. ‘I might get four hours’ sleep if I’m lucky.’ The door to number five slammed shut behind him and Mercuriadis found himself alone on the landing, the key to number six in his fingers. He inserted it gently into the lock, alert for any sounds or movement beyond.
Banging and crashing, Monroe had said. Could it be burglars? He paused, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier just to go back downstairs and call the police. His heart was already pounding from the climb but it seemed to speed up as he thought of the possibility of a break-in. If the noises had stopped five minutes ago, it should be safe to investigate. He pushed the door a fraction, still listening.
The silence was total.
All he could hear was his own breathing and the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.
He pushed the door open, reaching for the light switch.
‘Oh my God,’ he murmured.
The room had been ransacked.
Everything it was possible to smash had been smashed. Damage of some description, it seemed, had been done to every single object in sight. The sofa was torn apart, the stuffing spilling from it like entrails from an eviscerated corpse. Chairs had been overturned. The television lay in the centre of the room, its screen shattered and holed, as if a heavy object had been thrust into it. Cupboard doors had been torn off their hinges, their contents scattered across the floor. Shattered. Destroyed.
Records had been pulled from their sleeves, the black vinyl broken and scattered amongst the other debris. The video lay ruined against the opposite wall, as if thrown there with great force. The plug it had been attached to was still in the socket. The stereo too had been smashed, the turntable itself prized out and hurled to one side. CD cases, tape cases, videos and even books had been torn open. Mercuriadis could scarcely move without treading on some broken object.
His heart pounded harder, his head spun. As he looked around it became obvious that nothing had been taken.
The object had been destruction pure and simple, not robbery.
He felt a cold breeze against his hot cheek and realized that the bedroom door was open a fraction.
With infinite slowness he moved towards it, prodding it open slightly, just enough for him to slip inside. He fumbled for the light switch but when he flicked it nothing happened. Looking up, he saw that even the lightbulb had been smashed.
The duvet had been ripped to shreds; the pillows, too. Wardrobe doors, those that hadn’t been simply torn from their hinges, hung open revealing the devastation inside: clothes torn and ripped, pulled from their hangers and tossed into the centre of the bed. A framed photo of Mel Gibson had been pulled from the wall and smashed, the picture snatched out, the frame smashed. Drawers had been upended, their contents dumped on the floor.
Mercuriadis felt a growing tightness in his chest, a sickly clamminess closing around him. He tried to control his breathing, aware of a growing pain around his sternum.
Sucking in deep breaths, he realized where the cold breeze was coming from.
The room’s single sash window had been prized open, paint scratched and gouged from the frame where entry had been forced.
He swayed slightly and moved towards the window, wincing as the pain in his chest became more acute.
The bedroom door swung gently shut behind him, the sound causing him to turn quickly.
The figure loomed out of the darkness at him, stepping so close until Mercuriadis could feel the intruder’s breath on his cheek.
His eyes bulged madly in their sockets as he stared at the intruder.
A heart already strained swelled and burst; the shock was too great, too intolerable.
His vision was clouded red as several blood vessels in his eyes simply erupted.
As he fell backwards onto the bed the intruder stood over him for a second, looking down. In his final minutes of consciousness Mercuriadis was conscious of its presence, and what he had seen – a sight he could not have imagined in even the most depraved nightmare. A sight which questioned his sanity as surely as it took his life.
The figure headed towards the window and clambered over the sill, disappearing into the welcoming darkness.
Mercuriadis felt one massive surge of pain envelope him, spreading with staggering rapidity from his chest, along his left arm and up into his neck and jaw.
He felt the darkness descending upon him and he feared it but, after what he’d seen, the oblivion which awaited him was to be welcomed.
The flat was silent once more.
Twenty-Three
Martin Connelly sipped at the glass of white wine and peered out of the window of Silk’s restaurant. He was seated at his usual table, to the right of the main door. The menu lay close by his elbow and a waiter came over to ask if he was ready to order. Connelly said he was waiting for a guest. The waiter nodded and passed on to another table.
Connelly glanced at his watch; it was almost 1.15 p.m. He wondered where his guest was.
The phone call had been completely unexpected. He’d arrived at his office in Kensington at around ten that morning, the drive in from Beckenham having taken him a little longer than usual. After listening to the messages on the answerphone, he’d returned those calls he thought important and decided that those not so important could call him back. Then he’d settled down to read an unsolicited manuscript he’d begun the day before. Unlike most unpublished material, it showed promise; Connelly was already beginning to wonder whether to invite the author into the office for a chat.
The phone call from Donna Ward had come about 10.30.
Could she meet him for lunch that day?
Connelly had agreed immediately, and told her he’d book the table at Silk’s for one. He’d spent the rest of the morning wondering what she could want; she’d mentioned nothing over the phone. The fact that it was to be over lunch pleased the agent. It was less formal than her coming into his office. He smiled to himself, taking another sip of his wine.
He saw the taxi pull up outside and watched her clamber out. As she paid the driver, he took in as much detail as possible of her appearance.
She was wearing a black silk jacket over a white blouse. A short black skirt and black suede high heels showed off her shapely legs. The wind ruffled her blonde hair as she walked and Connelly felt his heart beating faster when she entered the restaurant. She was met by a waiter and then not
iced the agent sitting close by. She smiled and joined him, kissing him on the cheek before she sat down.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, running a hand through her hair and dropping her handbag beside her. ‘The traffic was terrible. I had to leave the car parked in Golden Square and get a cab.’
Connelly waved away the apology. Unlike the previous day when he’d seen her, she looked tired but she was made up and her clothes were immaculate. She looked wonderful, considering the circumstances.
He told her so.
‘Thanks,’ she said. She smiled briefly at him and ordered a mineral water from the hovering waiter.
‘I hope you like it here,’ he said.
Donna glanced around the restaurant. The walls were covered in jockey’s silks, riding caps, whips and pictures of racehorses. Paintings or photographs of famous jockeys vied for space on the walls. Rotary fans turned slowly like the blades of a helicopter.
‘I usually bring clients here,’ he said. ‘This isn’t business, is it, Donna?’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Sort of.’
‘And I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company.’ He smiled and studied her across the table, gazing into her eyes a little too intently.
‘How are you managing?’ he wanted to know.
‘Everything’s organised, thanks to Julie. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’ She sighed. ‘I’m terrified, Martin. I’m dreading the funeral. Part of me wants it over; the other part hopes tomorrow never comes.’
‘I understand that. Like I told you before, if there’s anything I can do, call me.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here now,’ she told him.
The waiter returned and they ordered. Donna shifted position in her seat and looked at Connelly.
‘How much did Chris tell you about the books he was working on, Martin? How much did you know about them?’
‘Very little, until I saw the finished manuscript. You know how Chris liked to work, keeping everything to himself until the book was finished. Even after the book was finished it was sometimes a job to get him to talk about it. The publishers always wanted him to do promotional tours, interviews and that sort of stuff, but you know, he wouldn’t do that for two of the books.’
‘So he never talked to you about his projects?’ she said. ‘You never even had a clue what he was writing about, or what he planned to write about next?’
‘He mentioned things here and there, rarely anything specific, though. Just plot outlines, ideas sometimes. That was it.’
‘And his research? How much did you know about that?’
‘Only what he told me.’
Donna shook her head gently.
‘You were his agent, Martin, and you’re trying to tell me you never knew what he was writing about, what research he did? Nothing?’ She looked at him challengingly.
‘Only what he told me,’ Connelly insisted. ‘It seems we’ve had this conversation before, Donna. I can’t tell you anything different.’
The starters arrived. Donna prodded her avocado with the fork.
‘What did he tell you about this new book?’ she wanted to know.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Connelly said irritably, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. How many more times?’
‘You arranged some of the interviews he did, didn’t you? Or can’t you remember that either, Martin?’ she said cryptically.
‘What is your problem, Donna?’ he hissed, keeping his voice under control but not his anger. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’
‘The truth.’
‘I don’t know the truth. You asked me what Chris was working on. I don’t know, but that’s not good enough for you. Why did you mention his interviews?’ he asked.
Donna reached down beside her and fumbled in her handbag. She produced Ward’s diary and flicked it open, turning it around on the table so that Connelly could see it.
‘October 25th,’ she read aloud. ‘Interview in Oxford.’ She turned a few more pages. ‘November 16th. Interview in Edinburgh.’ She looked at Connelly. ‘He was gone three days that time. And here, London, December 2nd. He was gone two days then.’ She turned more pages. ‘January 6th. Dublin.’
Connelly shook his head.
‘Did you arrange those interviews, Martin?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or weren’t they interviews? Was he with her, then? Did you know about it? Who usually went with him on promotional trips? Someone from the publishers, wasn’t it? Someone from the publicity department? Or was it her?’
‘Donna, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Connelly said wearily. ‘What you’re talking about or who you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Suzanne Regan. My husband’s mistress. Did she go with him on any of these trips?’
‘I don’t know. Really. Trust me.’
‘What about these?’ she said, pointing at other entries in the diary. Beside every single interview in London, Oxford, Dublin or Edinburgh was the initial D.
‘Who was “D”?’ she asked. ‘Was that his pet name for her?’
Connelly could only shake his head.
‘I really don’t know what any of it means,’ he said. ‘I didn’t arrange those interviews, if that’s what they were.’
‘Did you know he was going to be in those places?’ she persisted. ‘I thought you and Chris usually let each other know if you were going away, in case one had to contact the other urgently.’
‘Donna, I wish I could help you. I can’t remember if Chris mentioned those trips or not.’
Donna reached into her handbag again, this time pulling out the photos she’d found of Ward and the five other men.
‘Who are they, Martin?’ she asked.
Connelly didn’t speak.
‘Recognise any of them?’ she persisted.
He ran his eyes over the pictures.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked finally.
‘I found them in Chris’s office,’ she said, realizing it prudent not to mention she’d found identical ones in Suzanne Regan’s flat. ‘I want to know who they are and I’m going to find out.’
‘How?’ he enquired.
She flipped through the diary to another entry.
DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY
and beneath that
JAMES WORSDALE
The date was about a week later.
‘I’m going to Dublin,’ she announced defiantly.
‘What the hell for?’
‘To find out exactly what Chris was working on. To find out who these men were.’ She tapped the photo. ‘I think they’re linked in some way. And I think they’re linked to his death. I want to know how and I’m going to find out, no matter what I have to do.’
The rest of the meal was eaten in virtual silence and Donna finally left without having a coffee, having carefully gathered up the photos and the diary. She said goodbye to the agent and hurried out, flagging down a cab that was dropping off nearby.
Connelly paid the bill quickly and ran out after her, calling to her across the street.
Donna hesitated as he approached.
‘When are you leaving for Dublin?’ he asked.
‘In five days,’ she told him. ‘Why?’
Connelly shrugged and smiled awkwardly.
‘I thought you might like some company,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there a few times. Perhaps I could help you.’
Donna eyed him with something close to contempt.
‘I’ll manage,’ she said and climbed into the cab. Connelly watched as it pulled away.
Twenty-Four
Julie Craig received the news of Donna’s intended trip to Dublin with not so much surprise as weary resignation.
The two women were lying in bed, with only the ticking of the bedside clock an accompaniment to their subdued conversation. Julie lay on her back gazing up at the ceiling, listening to Donna recount her meeting with Connelly that afternoon. It was all she could do to stop h
erself telling Donna she was sick of hearing about the whole subject. Still she seemed obsessed with Suzanne Regan.
‘Do you think it’s a good idea you going so soon after the funeral?’ she asked.
‘The quicker I get this business sorted out the better,’ Donna told her.
‘And what if you don’t get it sorted out? What if you don’t find the answers you want?’
Donna had no answer.
‘Are you going to let it haunt you for the rest of your life? Are you going to think about it for the rest of your life?’
‘It’s easy for you to dismiss it, Julie,’ Donna said, irritably.
‘I’m not dismissing it,’ the younger woman said. ‘But this has become an obsession with you.’
‘Maybe it has. I’ll just have to learn to live with it. The same way I’ve got to learn to live without Chris.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I have to do things my way, Julie. It’s my way of coming to terms with it.’
They lay there in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Julie broke the stillness.
‘If you need me to help you, to come with you to Ireland, or anywhere else, you know I will,’ she said softly.
Donna nodded in the darkness.
The light filtering through the window illuminated her face and Julie could see the tears glistening in the dull light. She reached across and wiped them from her sister’s cheek, stroking her face.
Donna held her hand and kissed it.
Julie began stroking her sister’s hair, smoothing the soft blonde tresses back.
‘Everything’s arranged for tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘The cars, the flowers, everything.’ She continued stroking. ‘The caterers will be here before we leave; they’ll have the food ready when the service is over. I told them nothing too elaborate.’
‘Sausages on sticks?’ Donna murmured, managing a thin smile.
Julie smiled too, her initial annoyance giving way to a feeling of helplessness. She could see the suffering in her sister’s eyes, feel it in her words, but knew she could do nothing to ease it. All she could do was stand by helplessly and watch. She carried on stroking, seeing Donna’s eyes closing.
