‘Yes, it is quite something,’ said Stewart. ‘Restored in 2001.’
‘And no one uses it?’
‘Slight exaggeration on my part. There are services here most days. So what can I do for you, Lacey, isn’t it? I really do have a lecture at three.’
‘It’s about Barney.’
Instant alarm on his face. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘No, he’s fine. That is, I’m sure he’s safe and well, but I am worried about him.’
She waited for the reaction. Upon being told their kids were in trouble, parents invariably went on the attack. It was usually difficult to predict in advance whether the object of their aggression would be the child, or the officers who’d come to report, but it was invariably one of the two.
Stewart, though, surprised her. He walked slowly and deliberately to the front pew and removed the coat he’d thrown over his shoulders as they’d left his office. He sat down, leaving room for her to sit beside him without feeling crowded. Then he waited for her to tell him more.
‘I thought you should know that Barney has been looking for his mother,’ she began. ‘For the better part of a year now. He’s been placing ads in the classified sections of local papers. He has a plan to hit all the papers in Greater London and then gradually spread out over the south-east. Every penny he earns at the newsagent’s he spends on advertising. He wants me to help him now. He wants me to get her put on the missing-persons list, to launch a proper police inquiry.’
When she glanced over, the man beside her had visibly paled. He’d wrapped his jacket around his lower arms like a muff, or a comforter. ‘Barney’s mother is dead,’ he told her.
‘I know that. I did an online search for her after I spoke to him.’
Stewart shook his head slowly. ‘I had no idea he still thought about her,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t mentioned her in years.’
‘I’m afraid she’s on his mind a great deal. Do you never talk about her at all?’
He was fiddling with something on the coat, twisting it, worrying it. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for him to ask. I should have known the fact that he didn’t was a problem in itself.’
Both afraid of being the first to raise the forbidden subject, each waiting for the other to bring it up.
‘He found her, did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Lacey.
‘He and I had been out for the day. He wasn’t an easy baby. Completely adorable in many ways, but demanding. Needed constant attention and entertainment. Even I found him exhausting and I wasn’t with him most of the day. Karen just couldn’t deal with it and I was trying to give her a break. I thought a bit of peace and quiet for a few hours might help. When we got back, he went running round the house looking for her. He’d climbed up the stairs before I even knew where he was and pushed open the bathroom door. By the time I got up there, he’d climbed in himself. I think he was trying to get her out … God, the two of them, the water had splashed everywhere. It looked like the whole room was covered in blood.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lacey. ‘How terrible for him. For you both.’
‘For the first few weeks, he asked for her a lot. Just Mummy, Mummy, over and over again. And he had very bad nightmares – it wasn’t difficult to imagine what they were about. After a while, he just stopped asking and I suppose I was relieved. It seemed so much easier just to pretend he’d never had a mother. Jeez, I really screwed up, didn’t I?’
Yes, thought Lacey. It’s what we do. We screw up, and those we’re supposed to protect are the ones who get damaged.
Stewart was looking at his watch. ‘I really have to go,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’ll take care of it.’
Lacey watched him pull his coat back on and walk down the central aisle. Only when the heavy oak door had closed behind him did she realize he’d left something on the pew, something that must have fallen from the pocket of his coat while he’d been fidgeting with it. A small, black glove.
PART THREE
51
Saturday 8 March
OFTEN, IN THE other world, Lacey tried to picture the hall where those who were imprisoned physically met with those who served time in other ways, and could never do it. Yet once inside, it became as familiar as her own bedroom. Creamy yellow, scuff-marked walls, dust collecting in corners, high barred windows that never seemed to show anything but grey cloud. Often, when she was in here, Lacey felt as though she’d been in this large, dusty, echoing space for ever and that the world outside was nothing more than vague memories and mostly forgotten dreams.
‘So how long since anything’s happened?’ the prisoner asked.
‘Nearly three weeks,’ said Lacey. ‘Two weeks, four days, to be precise, since Oliver Kennedy was found alive and well. The clocks will go forward soon, the evenings will be light again. People are actually starting to wonder if it’s over.’
Pretty eyes blinked and narrowed. ‘Has there been a deathbed confession?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Then it’s not over. If he’s still alive, he’s planning that someone else won’t be.’
‘You sound very sure of yourself.’
Shoulders rose, fell, the prisoner rolled her eyes and pulled a face. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘What could I possibly know about serial killers?’
‘And there was I, thinking the police and the medical profession had black humour all sewn up.’
‘You want to spend some time in a high-security prison.’
‘If DI Tulloch has her way, I probably will.’
Across the room something fell and shattered. There was a scurry of movement, a muttering of recrimination. Sound always seemed much louder in here, shrill and grating, and when someone yelled, Lacey could almost feel the vibrations spinning round in her eardrums.
‘I take it diplomatic relations have not been resumed?’
‘She’s had me into the station three times,’ Lacey said. ‘She clearly doesn’t believe I know nothing more about the discovery of Tyler King’s body than I’ve already told them.’
‘She’s a cow. But in fairness to her, you do.’
‘Hardly. Without any evidence of where that text came from, all I have is a hunch I can’t prove. And yet she has someone watching my flat every Tuesday and Thursday. I’m sure she’d have it searched if she could get a warrant.’
‘She’s jealous.’
‘Of what, exactly? My meteoric career? Dazzling social life?’
‘She’s jealous because he loves you.’
Lacey told herself not to grin like a halfwit, that it really made no difference whether he did or he didn’t. Except, wasn’t the belief that he did, in spite of everything, the reason she was able to go on?
‘She’s gay,’ Lacey said.
Hazel-blue eyes twinkled. ‘Maybe she’s jealous because you love him.’
‘I’m not going to dignify that—’
‘Yeah, yeah, so are you still seeing the shrink?’
‘Don’t have a choice on that one if I want to keep my job.’
Eyebrows twitched. Eyelids narrowed. ‘You haven’t resigned then?’
Lacey braced herself for an argument. Or an I-told-you-so moment. ‘I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just not prepared to leave under a cloud.’
‘That’s my girl. Does seem a bit of a waste, though, when you can get all the therapy you need here for free.’
‘And believe me, you do me much more good.’
The prisoner leaned forward an inch or so and tipped her head first one way and then the other. Then she sat back and stared for several long seconds without speaking. ‘Hmm,’ she said eventually. ‘You sure?’
Half-amused, Lacey waited the silence out. As if she was going to fall for the steely-eyed stare. Hadn’t she taught it to this girl in the first place? Sure enough, fewer than ten seconds had gone by before boredom set in.
‘So, what’s the latest on Peter Sweep?’
�
��What do you know about Peter Sweep? You can’t be allowed to use Facebook?’
‘Not officially. But we can access the internet under supervision. And nobody pays too much notice. Why would they? All the porn channels are blocked. So, go on, Peter Sweep?’
‘The official line is that he was a time-waster,’ said Lacey. ‘Some nut milking the case for his own twisted ends. He wanted attention, to be the centre of a massive media storm, and got rather more than he’d bargained for. The reaction to his kidnapping of Oliver put the wind up him and he’s lying low.’
‘As, coincidentally, is the killer.’
‘Peter Sweep isn’t the killer, the MIT have been very clear about that.’
‘And of course they’re never wrong. Now, when are you going to tell me what’s up with you?’
Somehow they never stayed on safe ground for very long. Lacey shook her head. ‘I’m OK. I’m struggling with that business in Cambridge, but I’m coping.’
Silence. She was getting the steely-eyed treatment again. Well, that was OK, she just had to sit it out.
Seconds ticked by. At least six, maybe she even made it to seven.
‘I’ve done something really stupid,’ she said, and could feel the tears smarting behind her eyes.
The other woman was marble still. ‘I doubt that, but I’m listening.’
Lacey tried to smile, didn’t quite make it. Then she tugged the sleeve of her sweater up over her wrist. She untied the knot and started to unravel the bandage. The girl reached out and stopped her.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I know what you did.’
‘It’s like scratching an itch,’ said Lacey, as though pleading to be understood. ‘Once you think about it, you can’t not do it.’
‘Does it help?’
‘Yes. It really does. It’s like a drug. Like Valium. The scream that’s been building up inside me just melts away.’
‘Until the next time?’
Really no need to answer that. Overcome with shame, Lacey dropped her eyes to the Formica tabletop. When she finally looked up, the face opposite hers was that of a crestfallen child.
‘I really screwed you up, didn’t I?’ said the prisoner.
A damp film was swimming across Lacey’s vision. Tears were very close. ‘I think I managed that one by myself,’ she answered.
‘Ten minutes, ladies!’ called the officer on duty. There was a general flurry around the room as people began the process of getting ready to leave.
‘How’s Mark?’ asked the prisoner.
Lacey sighed. ‘Avoiding me. I haven’t seen him since – well, since he found out I’m not as tough as he likes to believe. I don’t know, maybe he thinks I had something to do with the murders as well. He started out believing me guilty of everything, maybe he’s just reverting to form.’
‘Ever thought of telling him the truth?’
A long silence. Visitors were starting to leave the room. Prisoners were filing out of a door at the back.
‘No, you’re right. You can’t. And you can’t be with someone and keep a tiny piece of yourself back.’
‘This is not a tiny piece we’re talking about,’ said Lacey, keeping her voice low, as people passed close by. ‘It’s who I am. And not with him, no. For some reason, he’s the one person I can’t hide anything from. Apart from you, of course.’
‘You really do love him, don’t you?’
Lacey leaned back in her chair. Love him? Did that really, honestly, come anywhere close?
‘If I wasn’t around, you could be with him.’
All the light had left the other woman’s face. Lacey knew instinctively she was deadly serious. She sat upright again.
‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I think you need to stop,’ she said.
Simultaneously, both women stood. ‘Maybe we need to face facts,’ said the other. ‘If I disappear, you’re safe. Nothing to tie you to what happened before. Nothing for anyone to find out.’
‘I’m not listening.’ Lacey bent to pick up her bag, blood pounding in her ears.
‘I’ll do it. For you. I’ll do it gladly.’
‘Stop it. Now.’
Around them, faces were turning their way. Violence erupted so swiftly and suddenly in these situations, everyone was constantly on their guard.
‘You are the one person I can be myself with,’ said Lacey, not caring who heard, as long as the girl in front of her got the message. ‘If I didn’t have this time with you, I’d be lost.’
‘If you lost me, you could have him.’
A heartbeat. A decision, made years ago, never articulated before.
‘Then I choose you. Do you hear me? I choose you.’
52
‘ABBIE, DO YOU remember my mum?’
Abbie Soar, Harvey and Jorge’s mum, put down the chopping knife and gave the smallest, saddest shake of her head.
‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘It was just you and your dad when you first arrived at pre-school.’
The kitchen door opened, Jorge’s strong, clear voice rang throughout the house and Harvey appeared, tugging at the waistband of his school trousers.
‘Mum, can you get me Tommy Hilfiger’s boxer shorts?’ he asked, heading for the counter, nose in the air, like a hound sniffing out truffles.
‘Possibly. But what would Tommy Hilfiger wear?’
Harvey pushed his body against that of his mother. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said, looking up into her eyes and digging his chin into her breastbone in a way that looked pretty uncomfortable but which Abbie didn’t seem to mind. She wrapped her hands around his middle and worked her fingers inside his waistband. Then she bent her head and nuzzled her face against Harvey’s neck. It was the sort of physical intimacy of which Barney had no personal experience.
He turned away, fixing his attention instead on the photographs on the wall. They were in black and white, all taken by Abbie in foreign countries: black kids dressed as soldiers, who might have been playing a game except for the hollow look in their eyes; women with dark headscarves and startlingly pale eyes, watching out over arid landscapes for men who would never return; people limping from a burning hospital.
It was pretty depressing stuff. Not a single picture on the wall made you feel good about life. But the picture he could see reflected in the glass of most of the photographs was disturbing him even more. A mother, treating her child’s body like an extension of her own; her son nestling against her as though they were two adjoining pieces of a jigsaw. For a second, Barney felt rage threatening to overwhelm him.
Not fair, not fair!
OK, Harvey didn’t have a dad, but dads weren’t the same. Dads earned money and kept you fed and clothed and drove you around the place, but mums wrapped their bodies around yours and made you feel safe. Mums were the ones who cried when you cried, but loved your tears all the same because they had the power to make them go away. Mums were there in the night, when dark, twisting fears were wrapping themselves around you. Mums were the ones who lay down close and whispered stories about riding through tropical forests on blue elephants. Mums were the ones who could put their hands on your bare bum and bite your neck and nobody would think it at all unusual.
Not fair!
He’d heard nothing from Lacey. He’d known it had been bad luck to mention his mum to her. Now he’d done it with Abbie, too. In the picture glass he could see her now, watching him over Harvey’s head.
‘Tell you what, hon,’ she said to her son. ‘Will you go and get my phone for me? I left it in Jorge’s room.’
With a heavy sigh, as though there were no end to the effort expected of him, Harvey left the room.
‘Did you take all these?’ asked Barney, embarrassed now, feeling as though he’d give anything to take back what he’d just revealed about his mum.
‘Years ago,’ Abbie said. ‘Before Harvey was born.’
Upstairs, Jorge had stopped singing. Barney could hear him and Harvey talking.
‘I asked your dad once about your mum,’ said Abbie. ‘Not being nosy, just friendly. He told me it was just you and him. And he said it in such a way that made me feel he didn’t want me to ask any more questions. So I didn’t. As far as I know, no one else ever did either.’
Barney looked at a picture of a boy of about his own age, gazing up at the camera. A boy with a blood-soaked bandage around his head. ‘You’ve seen some pretty nasty stuff,’ he said.
Abbie came closer, until she could put a hand gently on Barney’s shoulder. The little finger of her hand brushed softly against his neck.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have.’
53
Monday 10 March
‘YOU SAVED ME the best view,’ said Dana, as she settled into the chair by the window and stiffened against a shiver. It would be cold here, floor-to-ceiling windows made it inevitable in March, but the view from the first-floor Blue Print Café on Butler’s Wharf was just about worth it.
‘Actually, I didn’t,’ replied Detective Superintendent Weaver, nodding downstream. Judging by the level of wine in his glass, he’d arrived early. ‘That’s the one I prefer.’
Dana had been looking past the thousand-year-old Tower of London towards the metallic gleam of the City. Every brick, every steel plate, every pane of reinforced bomb-proof glass sang out power. She turned a 90-degree angle. Warehouses, dock buildings, rotting wooden piers.
‘Whistler did a series of sketches of the Thames warehouses,’ said Weaver. ‘I’ve got copies at home. I’d have them on the wall, but Mary thinks unsigned prints are naff so I keep them in a folder in my study. Incredibly atmospheric – I’ll bring them in some time. Torn sails flapping in the gales, masts brushing against the rooftops, buildings that seem to be growing out of the river and tumbling into it at the same time. Working boats like beached whales, you can’t see how they’ll ever get out of the mud. And then the tide comes in and they’re off again, to distant shores.’
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