Under Dark Skies (Five Crime Stories Book 1)

by John Moralee

  “Do you have her address or telephone number?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Delaney thanked him, then walked outside, angry and frustrated. Forget it, he told himself. You don’t have time to find her. But when he started up his car engine, he could not drive off. What if he was the only person who ever recognised Kimberley’s talent? What if she stayed her whole life in this place, playing for nothing? He could not leave. Not yet.

  He drove around the town, looking for her.

  He had no luck.

  He stopped at the town’s library, where he flicked through the local telephone directory under M. He moved his thumbed down the list. Kimberley Moon was not listed. No Moons were listed. He went inside the store, bought some Coca-Coca and queried the assistant.

  “I know Kimberley Moon,” she said. “Used to go to school with her until she dropped out in the fourth grade. Never came back. Her mother was sick or something. It was a real shame because she was a real pretty girl, real smart, too. Sometimes I see her shopping, but I don’t know what she does for a living …” The assistant sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, she lives about a mile out of town. You take the road north of the church, look for a big, lonesome house. You can’t miss that old place, but I reckon you’re wasting your time. She doesn’t talk to strangers. She doesn’t talk to anybody.”

  The road was rough and wild, the asphalt pitted and broken. He had to drive slower and slower in order to stay on the road. He passed a number of houses that were no more than shacks. They looked abandoned, but he feared they were not. The houses were almost hidden by kudzu growing up their walls. The kudzu was as tall as the telephone poles spaced every hundred or so feet, which it also climbed up, carpeting them with thick, leafy vines. He crossed a bridge and came across a big house just how the assistant had described: it did look lonesome, set in the middle of an overgrown field of tall grass and weeds. A yellow Ford was parked at the front. He drove up to it and stopped. He could see a guitar case on the back seats, so at least he knew it was the right place. He stepped outside and stared up at the house. He could see where kudzu had been cut away from the porch by whoever lived there.

  He climbed the rickety stairs. The wood was ancient and warped. Delaney approached the screen door – intending to knock – but he was startled by someone looking through the gauze curtains straight at him.

  It was Kimberley. She looked small and vulnerable, and he was sure she only dared to stand so close to him because the glass and two doors protected her. She did not say a word.

  “Hi,” he said. “It’s me. You saw me at the bar. Can we talk?”

  She shook her head and started to turn away.

  “Wait! I loved your music. I know this sounds like a cliché or a pick-up line, but you have real talent and I know I can help you. My name’s Joe Delaney. Have you heard of me?”

  She nodded and sang: “I saw you in my tomorrows. Say goodbye to yesterdays.”

  It was the beginning lines of Delaney’s Misty Twilight, the song that had made him famous. She knew his work. He should not really have been surprised – Misty Twilight had sold millions of copies – but it was flattering to know she had heard of him and that she was willing to speak to him. He laughed, putting her hopefully at ease.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  When she unlocked the door, he stepped inside and went with her into a living room. She was so nervous she tripped over her own feet. There was a lot of antique furniture crammed into the room. It did not look like it belonged to her. Most surfaces were piled high with CDs and vinyl records. She had a big collection of second-hand albums on one wall. There was also an upright piano. She invited him to sit in the light of the windows. She did not sit down. She shuffled her feet on the carpet.

  “I – uh – don’t have many visitors. I know the place is in a bit of a mess.”

  “It looks great to me,” he said, picking up an album and reading the cover. “You must listen to a lot of music.”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I just hear it in my head. That’s the best kind of music. Sometimes, I need to play it out loud.” She paused, looking down at her feet. In the pervading silence, he could hear a ticking clock. No, he corrected himself, it was a metronome on the top of the piano. She must have been playing shortly before he arrived. He had interrupted her practice.

  “Do you play the piano as well?”

  “Sometimes,” she repeated. “Would you like some coffee, Mr Delaney?”

  “Joe. Friends call me Joe. I’d be delighted to have some coffee. Thank you.”

  She looked relieved to have something to do. She pointed at the door, then rushed out. He thought about following her into the kitchen, but he changed his mind and waited. Instead, he looked around the living room, attempting to learn something more about her. But she returned before he learned anything. He accepted his coffee and drank it appreciatively.

  “The bartender told me he doesn’t pay you.”

  “No. I like playing for free. It’s bad manners to charge for something that should be shared. My music is a gift from God.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Pardon?”

  “For money.”

  “Oh, I have a little job in town. I clean people’s homes.”

  “You could be a professional musician,” he said. “Have you thought of that?”

  “I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t like to leave my home.”

  “Why not?”

  “I look after my mother,” she said. “She needs me. I couldn’t put her in a nursing home or let some strangers look after her. You hear all sorts of terrible stories about things happening to old people and it just would not be fair. If I became a professional musician, I’d have to leave her with strangers. She doesn’t have any other family. My father left us when I was a baby. There’s just the two of us. Me and her. We need each other. My music isn’t as important as looking after my mama. She gave me life.”

  Delaney saw the tears on her cheeks. He also saw through her brave words for the screen they were. “Kimberley, you have to listen to me. You have to let the world hear your music. It’s an absolute waste of your talent if you don’t give it a try. I know - because I know genius when I see it. You have a unique skill, something too important just to hide in this backwater town. There’s something about you, Kimberley. It can’t be explained or defined; it just is. You must let me help you get a record deal. I can make your dreams come true.”

  He was about to say more when he heard a woman’s cry. It came from above. It was racked with pain. “Kimberley? I need you! Kimberley!”

  “Mama needs me,” Kimberley said, with some urgency. “Excuse me.”

  Delaney watched her leave the room and heard her run up the stairs. He decided to follow. After a minute, he reached the landing and saw one door at the corridor’s end ajar. He heard voices within: Kimberley’s was soft and gentle, but her mother’s was anguished and tired. He went to the door and quietly opened it wider, but when he saw Kimberley at the bedside of her sick mother, he did not enter.

  This was a private moment, he knew.

  The room was dark, the curtains closed.

  He was shocked by the state of the older woman. She looked like a living skeleton wrapped in sheets. There was a machine by her bed – a ventilator, perhaps. He could not tell. Delaney had seen pictures of the victims of Nazi Germany - she looked like one.

  To be so close to mortality made him uncomfortable. He stood in the doorway, watching Kimberley give her mother some pills and water, admiring her patience and caring. While Kimberley did this, her mother locked eyes on Delaney, her gaze holding his complete attention. The room became claustrophobic. He wanted to look away, but he could not. The woman looked into his heart.

  Suddenly, Kimberley straightened her back and sensed him behind her. She walked over to him and whispered, “She needs to sleep now. You shouldn’t have followed me. You could have brought all kinds of infection.”
r />   “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, quietly. He was thinking cancer.

  “My mother has AIDS.”

  “Oh.” He did not know what to say. “Maybe … maybe I should go.”

  “No!”

  That was Kimberley’s mother.

  “Mother, you need sleep.”

  “Nonsense. I’m okay now,” her mother said, struggling to sit up. “I can feel the pain going already. Your friend doesn’t have to leave. I’d like the company. Come in, please. Take a seat.”

  He chose a chair facing the old woman. He was aware of the cold sweat clinging to his back. Now it was Kimberley’s turn to stand in the doorway, not sure what to do. Her mother solved her dilemma by asking her to bring some fresh coffee. Reluctantly, Kimberley left them alone.

  “My name’s Wanda,” the woman said. She paused for what seemed like days, just breathing in and out, each breath taking its toll on her strength. “Has she gone?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I heard what you said downstairs.”

  “I’m sorry if I was too loud.”

  “Nonsense. I wanted to listen. I need you to do my a favour.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

  He approached the bed and the dying woman. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Kill me,” she said, her weak voice thick with suffering. Mercifully, the room was dark and he could only see her dark shape. There was a strong smell coming from her body, which made Delaney think of dead flowers. She smelled of dead flowers. He sat by her side, where she could see him. He could see her better now, as his eyes adjusted to the poor light. Her skin was very pale, shiny with dampness. Her hair – which had no doubt been strawberry blonde when she was Kimberley’s age – was a listless brown, streaked with white. It was stuck to her pillows like wet hay. “I can’t stand it any more. Please kill me.”

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “Because you know why it has to be done. My daughter could never do it.”

  He was glad for the darkness, for he could cry without her seeing. “I can’t do that.”

  “It’s time,” she said. “I know. I’m quite looking forward to it. I would do it myself, but I’m too weak. I could live for years like this … putting my daughter through hell. Kill me … for her sake.”

  He could hear Kimberley returning.

  “Will you do it?”

  “How?” he asked, rather than give an answer.

  “You’ll find a way.”

  *

  Later, Kimberley walked him to his car. The evening was cool and golden. In the distance he could see orange clouds above the foothills and detect the first rumbles of a storm. The moment was tinged with the sadness of final goodbyes. He did not want to just walk away like this – abandoning the greatest talent a man could ever meet – abandoning something wonderful - but it was clear Kimberley’s mind was resolute. She had spent all of her life living with her mother, who had been given AIDS by her father when Kimberley was just a kid. Her father was now dead; she did not have any other living relatives. He stopped at his car and tried one last time to persuade her. But she would not agree.

  “I’m sorry to waste your time, but you can see my hands are busy enough as it is. I love my mother more than my music.”

  And your mother loves you more than her own life, Delaney thought.

  “I’m … going to be staying in town for a few days,” he said, altering his plans mid-sentence, “so I may see you around?”

  She half-smiled. “Maybe.”

  *

  Delaney booked himself into a motel and cancelled his business schedule for a week. That night, he lay on the bed, unable to sleep. Kimberley’s music haunted his thoughts … and so did her mother’s request.

  After staring at the ceiling for hours, he dressed and went out wandering through the sleeping town, walking and thinking, thinking and walking, feeling more alone than he had ever felt.

  Moonlight made the town look ethereal. He could see little droplets of rain every minute or so, just enough to moisten his hair. There were no clouds above, though, just a clear sky sprinkled with stars. He walked as far as the river, where he looked down at the glistening water, listening to the soft sounds. The night was filled with the chirping of cicadas and the rustle of grass. They were black clouds burgeoning with power on the horizon, where he’d seen orange clouds earlier. Lightning lit them up and struck the ground in a dozen places. Neon after-images were left on his retinas, quickly fading to red. The storm was both beautiful and ugly, just like the situation he faced.

  He thought of Kimberley and Wanda.

  He did not know what to do. He just felt as though he had to do something. He could not let Kimberley’s talent go to waste. If it meant killing Wanda to save Kimberley’s life, could he do it? Could he kill her?

  It started to rain on him. He did not move. He let the rain soak him. He stretched his muscles, releasing some of the tension that had built up. He shouted at the storm.

  Thunder shouted back.

  *

  The next morning, he was still thinking about Wanda’s request. He would have to try persuading Kimberley once more.

  He spent the morning waiting for Kimberley to come to the bar, preparing what he would say. She arrived at noon. Again, her music moved him. She was so good she made him feel inspired to write his own songs. There was no way he would let her ignore her gift. Again, she dashed outside as soon as her hour ended. This time he begged her to listen to him. But she just ran away, scared and tearful.

  He knew what he had to do.

  *

  The very next day, Delaney waited for Kimberley to drive away. He was hiding in his car behind a wall of trees and kudzu. It was parked about a quarter of a mile from the house, on a one-lane road nobody used. He had been sitting there for three hours - smoking cigarettes he’d bought especially for that day - when she finally emerged and got into her yellow Ford.

  He had been dreading this moment.

  There was still time to change his mind …

  Kimberley started the engine and backed the vehicle onto the road. The car headed towards the town.

  As soon as he was certain she had gone, he set off on foot towards the house. He kept low in the grass, being careful to remain unseen. There was nobody nearby, but he was taking no chances. He was sweating so badly by the time he reached the porch that he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. He tested the door with a gloved hand. It was unlocked. People still did that here because they trusted their neighbours. He stepped inside the house. He looked up the stairs. He climbed them one at a time and stepped onto the landing with a thudding heart. Slowly, he walked to Wanda’s room.

  “You came,” she said, the instant he peeked into the gloom.

  “I had no choice,” he said, sadly.

  “Can you see the morphine tablets on the dresser?”

  Indeed, he could. He nodded, not able to form words. His throat was dry. His hands were shaking. There was not just sweat in his eyes, stinging.

  “Five will do it,” she said.

  “F-five,” he stammered. How many was that? He was finding it hard to think. Five. That was one more than four, wasn’t it? Five. He picked up the bottle and studied the prescription label: DO NOT TAKE MORE THAN THE RECOMMENDED DOSE. He unscrewed the cap and looked into the bottle, seeing the tablets. He counted them out into his gloved palm. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Wanda was waiting.

  Waiting to die.

  Waiting …

  *

  Afterwards, Delaney walked to the windows and pulled open the curtains. Bright sunshine bathed the bedroom, banishing the shadows as though they’d never existed. He unfastened the window latches and opened the windows, letting clean, summer air flow into the bedroom, billowing the curtains. He looked at the body in the bed. Wanda looked peaceful now.

  Hearing a noise, he turned back to the window. He could see a yellow dot o
n the road, returning.

  He would explain everything when Kimberley came home.

  He would tell her about the conversation he’d had with her mother. The first conversation; then the second one.

  Delaney would tell her how her mother had agreed to let him bring in some nurses and doctors to help with her care. He would tell her how he would pay for whatever was needed. No longer did Kimberley have to do everything alone. He was there. He would help in any way he could. He had understood that when looking down at the five tablets in his hand, knowing it was wrong to kill Wanda for convenience. Wanda had not wanted to die - she had just needed a reason to live. Her daughter’s future career was that reason. And so, he had returned the tablets to the bottle and explained what he would do. Wanda had agreed. Now, Wanda was sleeping soundly. He liked hearing her gentle snores.

  They sounded like music, beautiful music.

  The New Boss

  Lisa Boone’s first case as a DCI was a possible quadruple murder.

  That wintry morning she found herself just outside a little Welsh town with an unpronounceable name, watching the police divers searching the lake for other bodies, while the white ghosts of the forensic team analysed the tyre marks left on the embankment.

  Dark clouds cast black shadows on the forested hills around the valley, threatening rain. It had not rained during the weekend, but the ground was damp under her shoes. The air was thick with moisture that clung to her skin and clothes like a wet blanket. In case it started to rain, the forensics team would have to set up some tents to preserve the evidence. Everything was grey and murky, making her wish she could go home to bed and snuggle under the duvet with her husband Roger. He was probably still asleep. It was after all only seven a.m.

  By seven, Lisa Boone had been at the crime scene for two hours and on the road for another hour. This was her first coffee break. She gripped a Styrofoam cup in her gloved hands, welcoming the heat radiating into her fingers, thinking about how she would feel if her daughter had been one of the teenagers. Anna was fourteen, not much younger. If Anna had been murdered ...