by Daniel Cole
‘Anything else you can recall about this man? Anything at all?’
Dave clearly had a thought, the street light behind his head coming on as if on cue:
‘He drove a van of some sort.’
‘A … van?’ asked Marshall excitedly.
‘How do you know that?’ Rita asked him.
‘At the birthday party,’ explained Dave. ‘He got me to move my car to let him out. You know what parking’s like at The George.’
‘Colour?’ Marshall almost shouted at him.
Dave screwed his face up as he wracked his brains: ‘… Orange. I think.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marshall, already packing up her bag. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
By 8.40 p.m. Sainsbury’s was almost deserted, meaning that Winter had been roped in to stacking shelves, and had in turn enlisted the help of Marshall.
‘This is big, right?’ she said, holding an armful of PG Tips. ‘You and Chambers both called in an orange van on the night of his attack, and now we learn someone fitting the description of Henry Dolan’s killer drives the same vehicle!’
‘It’s something,’ nodded Winter.
‘It’s more than just “something”,’ she argued as they moved on to the Nescafé, seeing as no one had bought any of the weird herbal stuff.
‘We still can’t link this to Alphonse or his mother.’
‘You don’t think both Rita and Jimmy Metcalf’s descriptions could apply to Robert Coates?’
‘No. Not at all. Dolan’s girlfriend said he was “good-looking”.’
‘Well, that’s subjective.’
‘Not that subjective. The guy looks like a praying mantis.’
‘OK then, how about this? Both Henry John Dolan and Alfie had someone new come into their life in the weeks leading up to their murders, a person who managed to remain completely detached from their social groups while still forming rapid and unusually close relationships with them: romantic in the case of Dolan, a strong male role model in Alfie’s. That can’t just be coincidence.’
Winter looked impressed: ‘You’re good at this whole “police” thing, aren’t you?’
Marshall smiled: ‘That’s what you told me seven years ago.’
‘You are forgetting one vital detail though,’ he told her. ‘You showed both the girlfriend and the friend a photograph of Robert Coates and neither recognised him.’
Marshall didn’t really have a response for that small technicality:
‘… We’re missing something.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time to bring Chambers in?’
She gave him a reluctant nod: ‘You want to call him?’
‘It’s your revenge mission. Why don’t you?’
‘I don’t know him!’
‘Fine,’ Winter huffed. ‘… I’ll call him.’
The following evening, Marshall and Winter were sharing a taxi to The Black Dog in Camden, Chambers agreeing to a meeting with a man he hadn’t seen in years and a woman he didn’t even know on the most limited of information. Foot tapping nervously, Winter chewed his nails, watching the rain as the city scrolled past the windows.
‘You seem a little on edge,’ said Marshall as the cabbie argued with the radio in the front.
‘I’m fine. Just haven’t seen him since …’
‘Since …?’
‘Since I helped lift him into the back of an ambulance.’
‘But weren’t you partners?’ she asked in confusion.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t … visit him in hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Think he’s forgiven you for that?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t think perhaps you should’ve mentioned this before?’
‘… No.’
The Wet Dog would have been a more apt name for the dank little establishment on the banks of the canal, the musk originating from damp shoes, complemented by stale beer and the resident Doberman by the fireplace, a nauseating cocktail as Winter and Marshall squeezed into a nook beside the window. They sipped their beers in silence, watching the rowdy regulars exchange good-natured insults across the bar.
‘Here he comes. Here he comes,’ whispered Winter, getting to his feet, his nervousness catching, Marshall too getting up to greet him. Between them and the man waiting for the toilet, it must have looked as though they were receiving royalty in the far corner. ‘Chambers!’ he smiled as they shook hands.
‘Been a long time,’ he replied, catching Marshall glance down at his leg.
‘Thanks for coming. I’d like you to meet Detective Constable Jordan Marshall.’
‘Chambers,’ he introduced himself, shaking her hand for a moment longer than felt natural as he regarded the intricate tattoos climbing her arm, her dark clothing and numerous piercings. ‘Homicide?’
‘Narcotics … at present,’ she answered.
He smiled pleasantly and sat down.
‘We took a guess,’ said Winter, pushing a pint in front of him.
‘Not even close,’ smiled Chambers. ‘But thanks.’
Silence fell over the group as he took a long sip of his drink. Wiping his Guinness moustache away, he looked up at them patiently.
‘So …’ Winter hesitated … and then chickened out: ‘Your local?’
Marshall rolled her eyes.
‘Used to be,’ nodded Chambers, taking a fond look around the room. ‘Not been back in years though. Seemed appropriate somehow … Are you still out at Shepherd’s Bush?’ he asked.
‘Sainsbury’s,’ Winter replied cheerily. ‘But hopefully coming back soon. Had a meeting with occupational health today, in fact.’
‘Good,’ nodded Chambers. ‘That’s good.’
The tense atmosphere returned as they all took a greedy chug of their drinks this time.
‘So,’ started Winter, trying again, ‘as I mentioned, we wanted to talk to you about—’
‘Henry Dolan, Alphonse and Nicolette Cotillard,’ Chambers finished on his behalf.
‘Right.’
‘And as I mentioned,’ said Chambers firmly, ‘I’m not interested, and the only assistance you’re getting from me is what you can extract over the next two-and-a-half pints.’
‘Why bother coming at all then?’ Marshall challenged him.
‘I can go now, if you’d like?’ he offered, getting to his feet.
‘Of course not,’ said Winter, glaring at Marshall. ‘We need your help.’
Chambers looked at the young detective expectantly, whose begrudging apology was just about sincere enough to convince him to sit back down.
‘It’s a good question though. The only reason I’m here at all is because seven years ago, this man saved my life. But please, go ahead and say whatever it is you came to say.’
Over the course of the next twenty-five minutes, and another round of drinks, Marshall explained her connection to the case. She told him about Jimmy Metcalf’s off-the-record confession and Henry Dolan’s secret lover, about the orange van, and the official line on Tobias Sleepe’s death, and then went on to share her theory about mysterious strangers suddenly entering each of the victim’s lives.
‘I think the next step is to speak to Robert Coates again,’ she told him. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll engineer a “chance” meeting under the guise of a student, begin establishing a rapport.’
‘“Establishing a rapport”?’ Chambers nodded enthusiastically before picking up his pint, gulping down the rest and slamming the glass on the table. ‘Well, be careful,’ he said, standing up and walking out without another word.
Marshall turned to Winter: ‘What the hell?’
‘It always was a long shot,’ he told her.
‘He really doesn’t give a flying fuck, does he?’ she snapped, grabbing her coat.
‘Errr. Where are you going?’
‘To tell him exactly what I think of him.’
‘Wait. I don’t think that’s … Wait!’ he called too late, struggling to free his
legs from under the table as he watched her storm out after Chambers.
‘Hey!’ barked Marshall as she marched along the dark canal path. ‘Chambers!’
With a sigh of exasperation, he stopped walking and turned round, Winter rushing over to intervene.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she told him.
‘Is that right?’
‘How many years, precisely, does it take to become so bitter and detached that victims stop feeling like real people any more?’ she asked him. ‘You were able to just walk away so easily, weren’t you? You didn’t give a shit about Alfie or finding his killer. Neither of you did!’ she shouted, glaring at Winter as well. ‘You just went through the motions, collected your payslips, waiting to get reassigned to something easier … or skive off on the sick again,’ she added, eyes on Winter once more.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Chambers told her calmly but with a fire in his eyes.
After the hour’s reprieve, the first raindrops began to fall, ripples forming across the surface of the water as if the canal had started to simmer.
Chambers turned to Winter:
‘You think I’m getting dragged into this angry girl’s crusade?’ he asked before focusing back on Marshall. ‘You’re no detective. Not really. Think I didn’t notice Mary and Jesus painted up your inner arm … over the track marks? Where did the Rodin end up?’
Marshall’s eyes involuntarily flicked to her other arm.
‘… You’ve been telling yourself you’re doing all this for your teenage crush?’ Chambers asked her. ‘Bullshit. I bet you don’t even remember what he looked like. You’re just a lost little girl who latched on to the first thing that came along to give her life some meaning, using it to justify how “messed up” you act like you are. If anyone doesn’t give a shit about the victims here, it’s you.’
‘Chambers!’ said Winter, his tone implying that he’d crossed a line.
On the verge of tears, Marshall turned away.
Looking a little guilty for the outburst, Chambers sighed:
‘I just want to put it behind me. Every fucking time I take a step, it’s a reminder. I don’t need any more.’
‘And you think I do?’ Winter asked him. ‘Why do you think I never came to visit you in the hospital? Why do you think I only managed to struggle on for another month before going off on the sick? It’s because every time I closed my eyes, I was back there – wrapping my belt around your mangled stump of a leg, black snakes slithering around us as if Hades had finally spilled over, watching Reilly die alone in the street twenty feet away from me because I was holding your artery together! … I couldn’t face seeing you.’ With tears rolling down his cheeks, the heavens opened above them. He looked up and laughed bitterly: ‘And guess what?! The nightmares are back again. But I’m still here, aren’t I?’
Marshall couldn’t meet his eye, as the one responsible for dragging him into her obsession.
‘I had no idea,’ said Chambers, giving his former colleague a reassuring pat on the back. He cleared his throat: ‘While we’re all sharing, there’s something I didn’t tell you … didn’t tell anybody. When I said seven years ago you saved my life, I wasn’t just talking about the leg. Maybe I’d have bled out, maybe not, it’s irrelevant because as I was lying there … helpless … he came back for me.’
‘The killer?’ asked Marshall.
Chambers nodded:
‘He reversed back down the street. He climbed out of his van, and he walked over to me.’ Now even Chambers had bloodshot eyes as he revealed a secret he’d kept for so many years. ‘He had a hacksaw in his hand …’
Marshall raised her hand to her mouth.
‘He grabbed a handful of my hair and put my head in position … I felt the teeth of the blade pressing into my skin … That wound to the back of my neck – it didn’t come from the car crash.’ Winter looked ill. ‘But then you came skidding round the corner when you weren’t even meant to be there … Saved me.’
‘Jesus,’ said Winter, rubbing his face as Marshall remained quiet, realising that she had unfairly judged these two men, who had already pursued this killer through Hell and back.
‘This case almost cost me my life once,’ Chambers told them, drenched to the bone, ‘all because I broke a promise to my wife. I’m sorry. I can’t make the same mistake again. Now, if you’ll excuse me – I feel like shit.’ He turned round to walk away but not before adding: ‘Be careful. I mean that … Both of you.’
Wednesday
CHAPTER 18
The blade sliced through the skin with such ease, the first droplet of blood running down his cheek like a crimson tear.
‘Shit,’ muttered Chambers, unsure how long he’d been staring at himself in the mirror. He placed the razor down and washed his face off in the sink.
‘I liked your beard,’ Eve told him from the bedroom as she pulled her tights on.
‘It went white,’ he reminded her, speaking into a towel.
‘I thought it made you look very …’
‘Old?’
‘… wise.’
‘Same difference.’
As he dabbed at his newest injury, Eve called: ‘I’ll make us healthy omelettes.’
‘With cheese?’ he asked hopefully.
‘You’re not having cheese.’
Still holding a tissue to his cheek, Chambers absent-mindedly poked at his breakfast.
‘Something going on at work?’ Eve asked over the top of her coffee cup, opening her mouth to chime the inevitable answer with him.
‘… Huh?’
She put her drink down: ‘What is it?’
He gave her a weak smile: ‘Nothing. Just didn’t sleep that well.’
‘Your leg keeping you up again?’
‘Yeah,’ he lied.
Downing the dregs of her coffee, Eve checked the clock:
‘I’ve got to get to work. I’m in court today. Are you done?’ she asked him, reaching out to take his plate.
‘Sorry. What?’ he replied dazedly.
‘Are you done?’ she asked again. ‘Or are you going to finish this?’
Looking up at Eve with a pained expression, Chambers squeezed her hand: ‘… I haven’t decided yet.’
Rucksack over her shoulder and dressed in shredded jeans and a flannel shirt, Marshall walked the halls of Birkbeck College, having made worryingly little effort to fit in amongst the sea of Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine T-shirts. She followed signs through glass-roofed corridors that sprouted ancillary buildings like offshoots that had come into bloom.
Her plan: only to make contact for now. Her cover: a teary humanities student convinced she’d chosen the wrong discipline and thus completely ruined her life, seeking guidance on transferring to a course that would allow her to specialise in her true passion: sculpture. Having only spent the previous evening revising to complement what little she remembered from A-level art, she didn’t feel confident for anything more than the most superficial of conversations and planned on bursting into tears every time the gargantuan gaps in her knowledge were threatened to be exposed.
There was a part of her that feared somehow Robert Coates would recognise her. It was absurd, of course; she had been no more than an inconsequential leisure centre employee back then, and yet, the truer barbs in Chambers’ derisive summation of her had made her feel closer to that directionless teenager than she had in a very long time.
The musty smell returned as she left the modern extension and entered a quiet corridor, the name plaques on the doors a hopeful sign that she was in the right place.
Approximately halfway down the long hallway, she stopped:
Prof. Robert D. S. Coates Ph.D.
Taking a deep breath while trying to summon some tears, Marshall knocked on the door.
… No reply.
She knocked again, waited, and then tried the handle to find it locked. A glance to the left … and then to the right, she slid her Swiss army knife
out of her pocket, confident that it was more than capable of overcoming the antiquated mechanism. Jamming the nail file attachment between the door and the frame, she jimmied it until she heard a click.
‘Can I help you?’ someone asked from the next doorway along.
Dropping the tool into her back pocket, Marshall turned round, red-faced and committedly snotty:
‘I’m looking for Professor Coates,’ she sniffed.
‘He’s not here,’ the tank-topped little man informed her, voice full of suspicion.
‘But I need to speak to him. It’s urgent!’
‘Wednesday’s his day with his mother. He’ll be in again in the morning.’
‘OK,’ she sobbed, already starting to back away.
‘Can I let him know who stopped by?’ the man called after her.
‘OK!’ Marshall shouted back unhelpfully, marching straight for the nearest exit.
Parked just across the street from the main entrance, Winter was partway through stuffing a breakfast bap into his face when he spotted Marshall come rushing out through the doors. Binning the remainder, he sucked his fingers clean and went to cross the road, hesitating when he saw Chambers making a beeline across the courtyard for her. Electing to stay well out of it, he sat back down on the wall, watching their body language in interest, lip reading, convinced he was picking up the gist despite the distance between them:
‘You, sir, were really rather rude to me the previous eve!’ Marshall probably said, gesticulating wildly.
Chambers held his hands up, either in peace or for an optimistic, and frankly inappropriate, high-five. He moved his right hand over his chest:
‘My heart aches, for I am so sorry.’
‘I’m good at this,’ Winter complimented himself, peering down into the bin at his half-eaten breakfast. None of it looked to have escaped the packaging, at least not enough to come into contact with anything else in there. Checking no one was looking, he reached in and retrieved it, missing several lines of dialogue in the process:
‘… you made it quite clear blah blah blah … blah,’ Marshall almost certainly said.
Chambers shook his head regretfully:
‘I something didn’t something to something you.’
