No sooner had she put the phone down than it rang again.
‘Meg, it’s Dom.’ The sound of his voice quickened her pulse. ‘Sorry, I only just got your message. Meg – you still there?’
‘Yes.’ The images flashing through her mind flustered her; images of last night, when she’d conjured Dom’s face as Jonathan made love to her. ‘I… er…’ She cleared her throat; tried to sound businesslike: ‘It was about Carl’s girlfriend.’
‘What about her? Did you find her?’
‘No – I mean I haven’t tried the address yet because the letter said she was going on holiday. I was wondering if there was a mobile number. Would Carl have left it written down somewhere, do you think?’
‘Hmm.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t know, is the answer. He wasn’t much of a one for writing things down. Only time I ever saw him write anything was on the back of his hand.’
‘So he didn’t write letters to her? To Jodie?’
‘I don’t think so. See, he never really learned to read and write at school; sort of slipped through the net, like a lot of the lads in here. Any mail he got, I read it out to him.’
‘So he would have phoned her then?’
‘Yes. He told me that he phoned her whenever he could. Spent most of his wages on phonecards.’
‘So she must have a mobile then,’ Megan said. ‘The address on the letter was one of the student halls of residence – they only have payphones.’
‘Well, he must have memorised the number,’ Dom replied. ‘You say she’s a student?’
She detected a note of doubt in his voice. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Carl said she worked in a café.’
‘Oh.’ Megan considered this. Perhaps Carl had spared details like that when confiding in Dom. It seemed unlikely, though, given the intimate facts he had disclosed. ‘Lots of students have part-time jobs,’ she said. ‘Did he say which one?’
‘No.’ She heard what sounded like a small sigh at the other end of the phone. ‘I’m a bit surprised he never mentioned it – that she was a student, I mean.’
‘Well, I need to track her down, anyway,’ Megan said. ‘She might have given the admin people her mobile number. They should have all her details. I’ll pop in this afternoon and check. We can have a quick chat if it’s okay with you.’ She held her breath, worried that she was making it too obvious. The desire to see him had been heightened by what she had imagined last night.
‘Yes, that’d be great.’ She could hear the warmth in his voice. ‘I’ve had a hell of a night. It’ll be great to have a normal conversation, so please, even if it’s just for five minutes, do come.’
She felt a thrill of anticipation as she replaced the receiver. ‘My God, are you mad?’ she said aloud. Her voice sounded loud in the quiet of her office, the words bouncing back at her from the book-lined walls. Yes, this was madness. It was both foolish and naïve to contemplate a relationship with someone like Dominic Wilde. What was it about him? He had a physical effect on her; that was undeniable, but it was more than that. She admired him. Respected him in a way that she had rarely respected any man. He had faced his demons and conquered them in a way she never seemed able to have done herself. He had endured the most impossible circumstances and yet had emerged as a man transformed; reconciled with his past and at ease with his present. No wonder she felt unable to draw away, whatever the consequences.
Chapter 12
Before going back to Balsall Gate Megan had to deal with the knotty problem of Nathan MacNamara. The challenge lay in getting him off her back without ruining his chances academically. She wondered if there was any way of doing it without involving the Vice Chancellor. Technically, as her line manager, the matter should be reported to him. But he had a reputation for being very heavy-handed with any student he perceived as a troublemaker. Instead she wrote a letter to Nathan on headed departmental paper, warning him that his behaviour was inappropriate and that if it continued she would have no option but to refer the question of his suitability as a student to the Senior Tutor. As she sealed up the letter she turned to glance out of the window. It was sunny again. Perfect weather for a walk. She had a legitimate reason to go to Balsall Gate this afternoon but if she skipped lunch she wouldn’t feel so guilty about tacking on a visit to Dom.
Her stomach was rumbling as she left the building so she stopped to pick up a double shot espresso from the Starbucks across the road. Hopefully it would fool her stomach into thinking she’d eaten something. As she was giving her order her mobile went off. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at the girl behind the counter. It was Delva, eager for news. As the coffee machine hissed into action she told her about the exhumation and how she’d had to play dirty with DS Willis to get him to agree.
‘You’re learning, girl!’ The familiar guffaw boomed out of the phone, so loud that she had to hold it away from her ear. ‘Where are you now?’ Delva asked.
‘I’m on my way to the prison,’ Megan replied. ‘I’ll check the grave as well. I hope they haven’t left it unattended, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Have you had any joy with the Serious Crime Squad?’
‘Not yet, no, but I’ve got a couple of researchers on the case – including that ex-cop I told you about.’
‘Good. Keep me posted, won’t you?’
The espresso livened up Megan’s pace. A few minutes later she was approaching the broken shell of St Mary’s church. As she had suspected, there was no police presence in the graveyard. The fluttering plastic tape was the only thing that betrayed the fact that this place was a crime scene.
She stopped, glancing this way and that, looking for… what? The ghost of a waning moon hung low in the clear blue sky. In the shadowy hollows of the graveyard dew still lay on the long, unkempt grass. It sparkled where the sunshine touched it, giving the place an almost ethereal beauty. But she couldn’t help imagining what it would look like in a few days time. There would be a tent erected over Moses Smith’s grave; possibly arc lights if they decided to dig the body up after dark, as was often the case when graves had to be disturbed. But that was unlikely to deter the ghoulish once the story hit the news. She had to admit there was a certain macabre fascination in the idea of a corpse being dragged out of the earth after seventeen years. It made her think of something she’d picked up in a history lesson at school: about Oliver Cromwell, whose body was dug up and publicly hanged many years after his death in an act of ritual retribution.
She walked on, away from the church and the tombstones to the gloomy gates of the prison. As she passed through security her mind was still on the graveyard. She knew that what she had requested was a violation but there seemed no alternative; with so little else to go on, establishing the identity of the baby was crucial.
As she approached the jail’s main office the governor appeared in the corridor ahead of her. She quickened her pace, catching up with him before he reached the door of his room.
‘Mr Meredith!’ she called.
He wheeled round, his arms loaded with buff-coloured files. ‘Dr Rhys – what an unexpected pleasure.’ His eyes had that cold, reptilian look that told her he was on his guard.
‘The drug checks on the prison officers,’ she said briskly. ‘You said you’d consider it.’ She knew what the answer would be but she wanted him to know that she wasn’t going to allow him to ignore the Kelly case completely. It was obvious he wanted to slip gently into a well-paid retirement but she wasn’t going to let him have an easy ride.
‘To be blunt, Dr Rhys, I decided against it.’ He cleared his throat. What came out next sounded like a prepared speech: ‘You must appreciate that I and my colleagues operate in a challenging environment. The approach you have asked for is potentially damaging for morale. It’s hard enough to retain officers as it is, without insulting them with blanket surveillance.’
Before she had time to respond to his management-speak he launched a second offensive. ‘I’d be grateful if you could give me some indication – in writing – of how mu
ch longer this research of yours is going to take. It’s taking up far more of everybody’s time than I’d anticipated.’ He gave her a barbed look before elbowing his way into his office and kicking the door shut behind him.
She stood staring at the closed door. He was probably on the phone to the Ministry of Justice right now, demanding an end to her presence in the prison. She could just imagine his reaction if he got any whiff of the fact that she was now using her research as an excuse to visit Dom Wilde. He would no doubt take great delight in denouncing her to the Ministry; of rubbishing her reputation as an academic. She had underestimated Meredith; she’d caught a glimpse of something cold and calculating lurking beneath the world-weary, laisser faire persona he presented to the outside world. She wasn’t sure what it signified but she was going to have to be very, very careful.
With a grunt she turned back in the direction of the prison’s main office. She still had the authorisation slip Meredith had given her and – to her relief – the admin people processed her request without a murmur. But the visiting order for Carl Kelly’s girlfriend revealed no more information than she already knew: no mobile phone number – in fact no telephone number had been given at all when the application was made. She wondered what he had done for visitors before Jodie Shepherd came along. From her briefcase she pulled out the records she had hurriedly photocopied yesterday. According to the file Kelly’s solicitor, Anthony Greaves, was the only point of contact. The sight of his name reminded her that she hadn’t yet checked him out. She pulled out her mobile and tapped “Wilko” into the search facility. This brought up the number of Rex Wilkins, a man she had come to know while researching her book on sex offenders. Wilko was Birmingham’s top criminal lawyer and knew all the solicitors in the area – good and bad. If anyone could give her the lowdown on Carl Kelly’s brief, it was him. She tried the number but it went straight to voicemail. Hardly surprising: he was probably in court. She left a message then returned to her perusal of Kelly’s file.
She stared at the large, boyish eyes looking out from the photo in the top right hand corner. Underneath the picture there was a blank space in the section marked ‘Next of Kin’. Could a man really be so devoid of links with the outside world? Did that suggest he was under some sort of threat from someone? Was he frightened of who might visit him? She remembered what Dom had said about the way Carl felt about Moses Smith: He used to lie awake at night thinking the bloke was coming back to haunt him… Why would such a hard man be bothered by the supernatural? Was there a darker guilt that he carried with him? Something that bothered him more than the disposal of an addict who was probably destined to die young anyway? The image of the baby’s corpse leapt into her mind. She had met prisoners who had been involved in the death of children. It was something they had branded on their souls; something they could never erase unless they were complete psychopaths. Was that the source of Kelly’s irrational fears?
Chapter 13
Megan’s stomach gurgled as she negotiated the maze of corridors that led to the counselling room. She was being escorted this time by Ferret-face’s sidekick – the other officer who had failed to show respect when Carl Kelly’s body was removed from the cell. Like his mate, he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself to her. So she had asked him his name. He had grunted it out and she had had to ask him to repeat it: Gerry Kirk. On the walk through the prison she tried making conversation but he responded with monosyllables. When they got to the room where Dom was waiting Kirk left her at the door without saying a word.
‘Meg, you made it!’ He stood up as she entered the room, his tall, powerful frame bathed in the sunlight that slanted in through the window. He looked better than he’d looked in the past few days; his eyes were bright and he had lost some of his prison pallor, although the hollowness around his cheekbones was still there. She wondered if that was down to Carl’s death or the continuing pressure of being a Listener. All this went through her mind in the seconds it took to walk across the room and by the time she sat down her heart was hammering. He was leaning forward, smiling eagerly. She leaned back and folded her arms tightly across her chest, fighting the urge to reach out and take his hand.
‘I’ve had some good news since we spoke this morning,’ he said. ‘I think I might have found my daughter!’
‘Oh, Dom, that’s fantastic!’ Instinctively she dropped her arms, went to hug him, but stopped halfway, her hands flailing stupidly as she pulled back. ‘What… I mean… how did you find her?’
‘Well, it was the chaplain who tracked her down,’ he said. ‘He offered to search the electoral roll for me. I knew exactly how old she was, so that helped. It was a bit of a long shot, though, because I didn’t know if she’d still be living in the Birmingham area. But she is.’ His face broke into a delighted grin. ‘So I’ve got her address and I’m going to write to her.’
‘I’m so pleased for you.’ She allowed herself to pat him on the shoulder. Just the once. As she pulled her hand away it felt as if her fingers were on fire. ‘I never asked you – what’s her name.’
‘Elysha,’ he replied. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Don’t know where her mother got it from but I like it.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, faded photograph. ‘This is her,’ he said. ‘A nurse took it the day she was born.’
Megan’s eyes moved from the baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, to the figure immediately behind. The only familiar thing about him was the eyes: those slate-grey irises shining with pride as he perched on the side of the hospital bed. His hair was black – not a trace of the grey that had turned completely white since he’d been inside. His face was tanned and he looked impossibly young for the scene the photograph portrayed. He had his arm around a pale-faced girl who was little more than a child herself.
‘She was only seventeen,’ Dom said, reading her thoughts. ‘Weird to think that Elysha’s older now than her mother was when she gave birth to her.’
Megan nodded. ‘What are you going to say in the letter?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s going to take a lot of thinking about. I don’t know if she even knows I exist. And when she finds out I’m in prison, well…’ he rolled his eyes. ‘I mean, what would you think?’
‘Hmm, it’s tricky, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You can use my address if you like – the university one, I mean. If you put it care of the department anything she sends will come to my office and I’ll bring it in to you myself.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Meg.’ His beaming eyes held hers and she felt herself weaken.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said, reaching into her jacket to distract herself. ‘Here’s my card. It’s got the full address on. When you’ve written the letter give it to me to post, then there won’t be any prison stamp across it.’
He took the card and tucked it in the pocket of his shirt along with the photograph. ‘I forgot to ask you,’ he said, ‘Any luck with Carl’s girlfriend’s mobile?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going to have to try tracking her down through the university’s internal email system,’ she said. ‘If she’s away on holiday there’s a chance she’ll still be accessing her emails. One thing struck me, though: Carl seems to have had very little contact with the outside world. I couldn’t find any name in the file under next-of-kin.’
‘That’s because he grew up in care,’ he replied. ‘He never knew his parents. And he never mentioned any brothers or sisters.’
‘Was that a Birmingham children’s home, do you know?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a local lad.’
‘What about friends? Did he ever mention anyone – apart from the girlfriend, I mean, that he was close to?’
‘No,’ Dom shrugged. ‘He seemed like a real loner. The only person he ever mentioned before Jodie came on the scene was the bloke who used to supply him with drugs – the one who got shot.’
‘Oh yes, I remember you telling me,’ Megan nodded. ‘Was he afraid of anyone on the outside, then, do you th
ink? Could he have been targeted by the same people who shot his pal?’
‘I don’t think so. His mate was black – part of a Yardie gang. Like I said, the shooting was about some turf war – nothing to do with Carl.’ He dug his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘I wouldn’t say Carl was scared of anyone; not anyone living, that is.’ He cocked his head towards the window. ‘Remember what I told you about Moses Smith? How Carl got this idea in his head that he’d come back to haunt him?’
She nodded.
‘He kept having these nightmares – especially when he was coming off the drugs. He spent hours telling me about them. He’d imagine Moses was in the cell with him, covered in blood, about to strangle him or something.’ Dom sucked air between his teeth. ‘Sometimes, after our talks, he’d be afraid to go back to his cell, afraid to go to sleep. A couple of times I was asked to go to him in the middle of the night, when he’d woken up from one of his nightmares screaming the place down. He didn’t have a clue where he was, just kept rambling on about burning in hell for what he’d done. It shocked me how genuinely terrified he was.’
‘I was thinking about that on my way here,’ she said. ‘About what you’d said about Carl feeling as if he was being haunted.’ She told him what had occurred to her; that Carl Kelly’s obsessional state might have been triggered by the something like the death of a child.
‘You’re thinking about the baby,’ he said softly. ‘Yes, I’ve been wondering about that, too. He never said anything, though. Never mentioned a child at all.’
‘What did he say, exactly?’
‘It was incoherent, mostly. He just kept going on about the blood. “Blood everywhere” – he kept repeating that like a mantra, muttering it under his breath. He reminded me of Lady Macbeth, you know? It was like he was awake but not completely conscious when he was saying it. Then, when he came round properly, it was as if his memory had been wiped: he couldn’t describe what it was he’d been seeing in the nightmares.’
The Killer Inside Page 10
