Tomorrow.
He had woken, felt the night’s ache settled in to his body, decided to run a bath, ease it out.
Phone room service for breakfast.
Get Maria to share it.
There was knock at the door.
Donovan brought up his submerged head, blew trapped water from his nose and mouth, pushed his hair back off his face.
‘Just leave it outside,’ he called. ‘I’ll get it in a minute.’
A pause, then another knock.
Donovan sighed. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’
He pulled himself out of the bath, grabbed a white towelling robe and, dripping, made his way to the door. He pulled it open.
‘I said just leave—’
And stopped.
He knew they were coppers, even without the warrant cards thrust in his face. One was female, mid-thirties, short blondish hair and plain-looking from features to suit. The other was slightly younger; monochromatic from hair to suit to tie. The woman spoke.
‘DI Nattrass.’ She gestured to her male companion. ‘DS Turnbull. May we come in, please?’
‘I gave a statement last night,’ said Donovan. ‘What more d’you want?’
‘Could we come in, please.’ Nattrass’ voice was flat, impassive.
Donovan stood aside to let them in, closed the door behind them, looked at them.
Turnbull was scanning the room, making swift value judgements on its inhabitant. Not positive judgements, if the sneer on his lip and the cold cast to his eye were any indication. Nattrass was standing in the room by the mirror, waiting for Donovan to join them.
‘May we sit down?’
Donovan cleared old clothes from the bed, pulled the duvet up.
‘Thank you,’ Nattrass said, and sat. Turnbull did likewise.
It was clear that Nattrass wasn’t going to speak until Donovan had sat also, so he obliged, taking the chair in the corner.
‘Mr Donovan,’ Nattrass began, her voice low and calm, ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you.’
Donovan opened his mouth to make a weary quip, but the expression on Nattrass’ face stopped him. Her eyes were professionally void. He began to feel uneasy.
‘It’s … Maria Bennett. I’m afraid she’s dead.’
Donovan felt his heart lurch in his chest.
‘Dead …’
He looked between the two police, faces both stone flat.
‘But … dead …’
His head, his heart, couldn’t accept, process, the information. He felt like his body was spiralling into a steep, dark vortex while his head was being stretched in the opposite direction. Both snapped back together. He felt suddenly nauseous.
He shook his head to clear it. Felt worse.
‘She … she was …’ He pointed numbly towards the door. Shook his head. ‘No …’
The two police looked at each other, waited.
‘How did … how did … it … happen?’
‘She was murdered,’ said Turnbull bluntly.
Donovan looked at him as if not seeing clearly. ‘Murdered … who by?’
‘That’s what we were hoping you would tell us, Mr Donovan.’
Turnbull’s attitude brought Donovan sharply back into focus. ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Donovan sharply.
‘What DS Turnbull means,’ said Nattrass, throwing a look of admonishment towards her junior colleague, ‘is that we have found a body answering Ms Bennett’s description and carrying her documentation.’
‘And you need me to make an identification of the body.’ Donovan’s voice was hollow.
‘I’m sorry to ask you this,’ said Nattrass.
Donovan rubbed his face. ‘Oh God …’
Nattrass stood up, followed by Turnbull. She turned to him, eye to eye.
‘We really are very sorry.’
Donovan nodded.
They left, promising to wait for him downstairs. Donovan sat back down on the chair, stared straight ahead.
Thoughts tumbled through his head like slo-mo acrobats; emotions ran through his heart like runaway trains.
It felt like the world he had been constructing for himself on waking had disappeared. A fragile world of hope and straw, blown away by a dark, truthful wind.
He felt alone again. Bereft.
He felt …
Like he had done when David disappeared.
He sat there.
Room service came. Knocked. Knocked. Left.
He sat there.
Eventually he remembered the two police waiting for him in the lobby. He stood up, made his way into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.
It was only when he saw how wet his face was that he realized he had been crying.
‘I suppose I should tell you that Maria and I …’ Donovan paused, sighed, ‘are lovers.’ Another sigh. ‘Were lovers.’
Nattrass nodded, as if his words confirmed something she had known or expected.
‘I’m sure that must make it doubly difficult,’ she said.
Donovan hunched forward, elbows on knees, cat’s-cradled his fingers into ineffectual, insubstantial patterns. He sighed. Words, inadequate forms for articulating his emotions, had deserted him.
They sat next to each other on moulded-plastic chairs in a strip-lighted, anonymous corridor that seemed to be purgatorially unending; Donovan in his own world, Nattrass waiting for permission to enter.
The Royal Victoria Infirmary. Mortuary.
Donovan had been guided through doors and down corridors, the arteries of the building, heat steadily falling away until the final set of double doors swished slowly and steadily shut behind him, leaving him sealed in the chill heart of the mortuary.
Before him was a series of stainless-steel tables, edged and inset with drainage gullies. On the table lay a covered body. Turnbull crossed to a blue-suited lab technician, pointed back at Donovan. The technician moved forward, folded back the sheet.
Donovan was shaking, head down, staring at the floor. He had rehearsed this moment over and over in his mind: the sheet pulled back, a look at the body, the question asked, confirmed.
‘Yes,’ he would say, ‘that’s my son. That’s David.’
Then the pain would build, find release and with that release would come a sense of hideous calm and the foundations of a kind of closure.
But this wasn’t David.
It was Maria. Eyes closed, dark hair splayed out behind her head. Her finely featured face peaceful, like the night before when he had watched her sleep.
The ragged gash on her neck, already purpling, reminded him she was beyond sleep. Beyond everything.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding, ‘it’s her.’
And turned away, tried to wipe that image from his memory. Knew it would be there for ever.
Another loss.
Another ghost to haunt him.
‘Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mr Donovan?’ Nattrass again.
Donovan shook his head.
‘Anyone connected with a story you were working on?’
Jamal, Donovan thought, then dismissed it. Shook his head.
‘What was that, Mr Donovan?’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘What story were you working on? What were you both doing here?’
Donovan looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘Please … look, I know you’ve got your job to do, and I want her killer caught as well, but … I can’t …’ He shook his head.
Nattrass nodded, sat silently back but didn’t rest.
Turnbull chose that moment to return, walking up the corridor with two plastic cups. He handed one to Donovan, who looked at the contents wonderingly.
‘It’s tea,’ said Turnbull.
Donovan gave a vague nod of thanks, placed the cup on the floor, his shaking hands creating a microcosm of ripples, whirlpools and tidal waves on the surface. They quickly vanished and all was calm. Donovan sighed.
Turnbull sat at the other side of him. Donovan looked
up.
‘Where was she found?’
A look passed between the two police: Nattrass nodded, Turnbull spoke.
‘At the flat of Caroline Huntley.’
Donovan frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Caroline Huntley,’ said Nattrass. ‘Daughter of Colin Huntley.’
Something small and electric – a weak signal, a last spark – snapped across Donovan’s memory, then disappeared.
‘Colin Huntley?’ he said.
‘The missing scientist,’ said Turnbull, scrutinizing Donovan’s reactions.
‘You must have heard of him,’ said Nattrass. ‘It’s been all over the media. Lot of coverage, lot of bodies out hunting.’
‘Lot of overtime,’ said Turnbull. Nattrass ignored him.
‘I’ve been out of circulation,’ said Donovan.
Nattrass explained about Colin Huntley’s disappearance. Donovan listened, nodding.
That must be where he had heard the name, he thought. The papers. TV. But something persisted, niggling and fizzing at the back of his mind …
He looked up. Nattrass had asked him something.
‘Sorry? What?’
‘Her notebook, Mr Donovan,’ she said. ‘Ms Bennett had a full account of the disappearance of Colin Huntley in her notebook. We’ve checked with the Herald, and they’ve confirmed the time she phoned for information.’
‘When you were in Byker,’ added Turnbull.
‘She then went up to Jesmond to see Caroline Huntley. A neighbour phoned 999 at roughly ten thirty last night to say there was what sounded like a fight taking place in the upstairs flat.’
‘Caroline Huntley’s flat,’ said Turnbull.
‘And what does Caroline Huntley say?’ asked Donovan.
‘Nothing,’ said Nattrass. ‘She’s disappeared.’
Donovan looked between the two of them. ‘What?’
Turnbull took out his notebook. ‘At approximately ten forty-five,’ he said, ‘this same neighbour saw a lone figure carrying what looked like a heavy carpet, leave the flats, deposit this item in the boot of his car, a Vauxhall Vectra, and drive away.’
‘Licence number?’ asked Donovan.
‘Didn’t get it,’ said Turnbull. ‘Didn’t think it important at the time.’
‘We checked Caroline Huntley’s flat,’ said Nattrass. ‘It would appear that a large rug is missing from the living room.’
‘So that was her,’ said Donovan.
‘We think so,’ said Nattrass. ‘We’re trying to get the neighbour to come up with an e-fit of the man she saw. It could be a major breakthrough. And the car, too, although we’re less hopeful about that. Vectras are very common. But we think that this is the man who took her father. Why, we don’t know.’
Turnbull turned, looking Donovan square in the face. His features had a default neutral setting, but his eyes were intense.
‘So,’ he said, ‘any ideas?’
Donovan matched his stare. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’
‘Would you go and get Mr Donovan another drink, please, Paul?’
‘I just got—’
‘I don’t think Mr Donovan cares for it. Now, please.’
The look Nattrass gave him was designed to brook no argument. It worked. Turnbull rose reluctantly to his feet, stomped off. Nattrass watched him go, then turned to Donovan, a sympathetic smile in place.
‘I must apologize for my colleague’s attitude, Mr Donovan. In his zeal to see justice done he can sometimes be … confrontational.’
Donovan nodded, said nothing.
‘Mr Donovan,’ she said, ‘I realize this may not be the best time to talk.’ She produced a card, handed it to him. ‘There’s my number. If you think of anything, anything at all, please get in touch. I’m sure you want to see the murderer caught just as much as we do.’
Donovan pocketed the card, nodded.
‘I’m going to be frank with you. I’m not one of those detectives who believe the press and police should be at each other’s throats. We’ve both got our jobs to do, and sometimes those jobs can work out mutually beneficial to the other.’
Donovan narrowed his eyes. ‘How d’you mean?’
Nattrass allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think you know what I mean. You help me on this, and I’ll help you.’
Donovan nodded. That old game. Journalists and their sources.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Deal.’
Nattrass smiled. ‘Good.’ Then her eyes hardened. ‘But no playing cowboy. That won’t help anyone. Least of all you. Clear?’
‘Crystal.’
Turnbull returned with a cup and a scowl.
Nattrass stood up. ‘Thank you, Paul, but I’m afraid we’re going now.’
Turnbull, scowling at Donovan, upended the cup into a nearby bin.
‘Can we drop you anywhere, Mr Donovan?’ asked Nattrass. ‘Your hotel, perhaps?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Donovan. ‘I think I’ll walk.’
They saw him to the door, went their separate ways.
‘We’ll talk soon,’ said Nattrass.
Outside, another day was in full swing. The sky electric Edward Hopper blue, nearby Leazes Park a riot of autumnal red and gold. The sun was shining, life was going on. The kind of day that would make most people glad to be alive.
Donovan walked away, tried to ignore it.
The walk failed to sort anything out. He eventually reached the hotel.
‘Oh shit,’ he said out loud and stopped.
Cameramen were camped out in front, a TV news crew. All waiting to talk to the other journalist, no doubt. All waiting for him.
Before they could see him he ducked round the side of the building, looking for another entrance. He went right round the hotel, coming out by the back door to the restaurant’s kitchen. He nipped inside. A chef looked up quizzically at him.
‘Environmental Health,’ said Donovan. ‘Better get tidying up if I were you.’
No one else challenged him.
He walked right through to the foyer, tried to creep into the lift, but the receptionist saw him.
‘Mr Donovan, Mr Donovan …’
Sighing, he went reluctantly across, keeping out of sight of the main door. She held up a stack of paper big enough to reforest Cumbria.
‘I’ve got some messages for you …’
He knew they’d be from journalists asking him to talk to them. He’d done it often enough himself.
‘Bin them,’ he said, ‘the lot.’
‘And Mr Sharkey has arrived. He said he has to see you urgently.’
‘He can fuck off as well,’ said Donovan.
‘Excuse me?’ said the receptionist, eyes saucer-wide.
Donovan smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You didn’t deserve to hear that. Thinking out loud.’
She nodded, apology accepted.
He made his way up to his room, called the Herald.
Asked for all the information they had on Colin Huntley.
Colin Huntley could no longer tell if it was day or night.
His time was measured not in hours or minutes but in more basic, yet abstract, forms. The length of time between food deliveries. Between ingestion and bowel movements. Drinking and urinating. The number of rats seen in any one time.
A single bare bulb illuminated the place, an artificial, permanent sun, throwing out more shadows than light. Since Gary Myers’ enforced departure, along with a few old stinking blankets to keep out the bitter cold, Colin had been given a few old paperbacks to read. Jeffrey Archer. John Grisham. Tom Clancy. Colin suspected this was part of the torture.
The pain in his arm was still there. Another constant. And he didn’t feel at all well.
He wondered if he was going mad. Mephisto was trying to break him, he knew that. He could hear his voice even when he wasn’t there.
‘Make the call,’ the voice said, more insistent now. ‘Once you’ve done that you’ll be able to go free. And be rich.’
He co
uldn’t make the call. He wished he could. Because once he had, he would never be free …
The chains rattled, the padlock was released, the key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Colin squinted against the light. He no longer bothered reaching for the hood. He knew who his captors were, and his body was too weary to be pushed through the motions. With Gary Myers gone, there was no need for pretence.
It was Hammer.
‘Brought something to keep you company,’ he said.
Keeping the inset door open, he went back outside, dragged in what looked like a rolled-up rug. He pulled it across the floor, laid it next to Colin, began unwrapping it.
Colin, still chained to the radiator, pulled himself forward, tried to see. Something about it looked familiar. What was inside even more so.
‘Caroline!’
Hammer turned, swatted him with the back of his hand, sent him sprawling backwards against the wall. His arm hurt even more.
‘Keep your voice down, cunt,’ said Hammer. ‘Or I’ll take her away again. Piece by piece.’
‘Suh – sorry …’
Colin pulled himself upright again, rubbed his injured face with his hand. He was bleeding. He didn’t care. Caroline was here. His daughter.
His new world.
Hammer finished unwrapping Caroline, left her lying on the spread rug. Her wrists and ankles had been bound, her mouth sealed with a strip of gaffer tape. Her eyes darted all around the room. Even the sight of her father couldn’t wipe the terror from her features.
Hammer ripped the tape from her mouth, slit the bonds on her wrists and ankles. The cuff that had held Gary Myers was still attached to the radiator. Hammer yanked Caroline’s arm across, ignoring her yelp of pain, roughly closed it round her wrist. He stood up.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Happy families.’
He left, locking the door firmly behind him.
Father and daughter looked at each other, emotions rollercoastering around inside them. Then fell into each other’s arms. Or as far as they could manage, the cuffs clanking against pipes, chafing against skin, pulling them in opposite directions.
Huge waves of emotion built inside them, came crashing down as cascading tears, enormous, jerking sobs. Desperately clinging to each other, not wanting to let go for fear the other would be borne away again.
Eventually the tears washed themselves out. They pulled apart, looked at each other. Checking the other was real.
The Mercy Seat Page 21
