by Tania Carver
He stared at her again, really studying her this time. Really trying to see her properly. And then, with what felt like rusty chainmail dredging his heart, he remembered. He did know her.
‘It’s you.’
‘Hello again.’
He closed his eyes, tried to unsee her. Couldn’t. ‘Oh God…’
‘Certainly is. So.’ She moved closer. ‘I’m all grown up now, Michael. Do you still fancy me?’
‘No, no. This is, this is all wrong.’
She stopped, gave a mock frown. ‘Why? Am I too old for you, is that it? Did you only like me when I was younger?’
‘Stop, just, just stop it…’
‘Why?’ She moved closer, a hand sliding up his naked leg.
‘Please, just… let me go. Now. Just let me go now and I’ll… I’ll forget this ever happened. Pretend we never met.’
‘Oh, but we did meet, Michael. And here we are.’ Her hand at the top of his thigh.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t believe how something he had wanted so much so recently had gone so wrong.
‘I said I was in town to catch up on a few of the old sights. Well, you’re certainly one of them.’
He could hardly breathe. ‘I know… I know what you did.’
She shrugged. ‘I know you do. And I don’t care. You see, since we last saw each other, I’ve been busy. Turning a hobby into a career, you might say. It’s been very lucrative.’ She waggled an enticing finger at him. ‘You, Michael, were the one that got away. The one I had to come back for. My unfinished business.’
And, with a feeling of absolute dread, he knew what she meant. What she was going to do to him.
‘Please, oh please…’
‘Are you begging? Seriously? That’s not like you…’
Her hand slowly stroking its way towards his penis.
He closed his eyes.
‘You’ve wanted this for years, haven’t you? Wanted me for years? Here. Now. Like this. Except I’m sure that in your fancy I’m the one tied to the bed. The one you want to play your power games on.’
No reply.
‘Michael, and this is a serious question, just how have you got away for so long with being a paedophile in charge of children?’
He found his voice. Or a smaller version of it. ‘I’m… I’m not… not a paedophile.’
Another mock frown. ‘You like to fuck children. You like to watch children fucking. You even took a percentage for pimping children out to be fucked by other paedophiles.’ She seemed to be struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I’d say that makes you count as one in my book.’
‘I don’t… I’ve never fucked kids. Never.’
‘Never?’
She stared at him. He eventually relented. Blinked. Answered.
‘I like, yes I like my, my sexual partners young. On the young side. I admit that.’
‘Young?’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘That’s an understatement.’
He felt anger welling inside him at her words. ‘Yeah? Who made you so high and fucking mighty? Who gave you the power to tell me what’s what? You know what?’ He tried to gesture, couldn’t because of the bindings. ‘You’re a fucking hypocrite, like all the rest of them.’
‘Oh really?’ She sat back. ‘Do explain. This should be worth listening to.’
‘You listen to music? Rock music? They were all at it, all of them. Groupies aged fourteen. When they were nineteen they were past it. And you know who used to pimp them out? Their mothers. Yeah, their mothers. So their daughters could fuck rock stars. And what about the tabloids? All anger about paedos on one page then showing photos of twelve-year-olds in bikinis, saying how they’re developing nicely. And what about the time that tabloid did a daily countdown until it was Charlotte Church’s sixteenth birthday and she was legal? Remember that? No. Bet you don’t. But I do. So yeah. I like my girlfriends younger. Big fucking deal.’
She stared at him. Features unmoving, giving nothing away. He didn’t move, hardly breathed.
Eventually she stood up, undid his bindings.
‘Get up,’ she said. ‘Go.’
He stared at her. ‘What, you’re —’
She turned to him, eyes alight with sudden, raging fire. ‘Just go…’
He didn’t need to be told twice. He knew what a lucky escape he had had.
Or thought he had had.
For weeks nothing happened. He never heard from her, never saw her again. And he began to relax. Think he had got away with it. A life lesson, well learned. Don’t make that mistake again. He didn’t even go out on a Saturday night any more. Well, not for a few weeks. Then he started going back to bars again. But he was always more careful. Always kept to the script.
And he got on with his life. Forgot about her.
Another mistake.
One night there was a ring at his door. Unusual, he thought, but went to answer it. He didn’t get a chance to see who it was.
‘Paedophile!’ someone shouted at him and then his face was melting with a pain he had never experienced before.
Acid attack.
He lost his job, his house, everything. Because word had gone round about him. The paedo in charge of the children’s home. There were testimonies from ex-kids, a lot of them. He was a hate figure in the tabloids. And eventually, with only half a face remaining, he had to move to the flat where he was now, shunned and hated by all of his neighbours. They knew who he was. More importantly, they knew what he was.
And he knew who had been behind all this. Oh yes. She had got her revenge on him all right.
So he sat where he was, not daring to move, barely daring to think. She was back.
And maybe it was time for someone else to stop her.
33
Simon Matthews felt like a guest at the wrong party. As if his invite to participate in the investigation he was currently working on had gone astray and in its place was some kind of free-for-all that he hadn’t been expecting.
Marina Esposito had turned up, alongside Anni Hepburn. He knew Anni Hepburn, at least by reputation. She had been part of the department but the death of her partner had sent her off the rails. At least that was the word around the station. She had walked out, blaming everyone for what had happened. In fact, it had been her leaving that had created a space for him. So, if he was honest, he hadn’t been sad to see her go.
Nick Lines seemed to have brightened up considerably, too, since the others arrived. Or at least as bright as he ever got, which wasn’t saying much. But Matthews could tell the difference.
Introductions had been made. Imani had taken the role of hostess, the central hub around which the others all orbited. Matthews noticed a kind of reluctance or a reticence from Hepburn when she was introduced to him. Likely it was because of who he worked for and what he did and he was pleased, deep down, that he didn’t have to work with her.
Lines was explaining his findings to the two newcomers. Pointing to the report to back his work up.
‘So that was the same for all three of them?’ asked Marina.
Lines nodded. ‘Exactly the same. Once I’d spotted it on one body I checked for it on the others. The first had been difficult to find. The other two less so. I knew what I was looking for.’
‘So have you found this on any other bodies?’ asked Anni.
Nick Lines shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. At least not round here. Not in connection with this investigation. Just these three.’
Marina sat down. Matthews couldn’t help but notice that she looked tired, strained. He felt some compassion for her; after all it was her husband they were all looking for. Another thought struck him. Why was she here? Why was she part of the investigation along with an ex-copper?
Marina looked up at him, smiled. Almost reading his mind. Or at least reading the puzzled expression on his face.
‘I suppose, DC Matthews,’ she said, ‘that you’re wondering what I’m doing here? What Anni is doing here too?’
He shrugged, trie
d to regard it as no big deal. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’ It felt like the most politic thing to say.
‘I’m sure it has. We’re a different part of the investigation. Tracking down different leads.’
‘Coming at it from another direction, you might say,’ said Anni.
‘But you’re still civilians,’ Matthews said. ‘You have no real jurisdiction here.’
He felt the whole room turn and look at him. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
Nick Lines almost smiled. ‘Actually, Detective Constable, this is my workplace. I could say that about all of you.’
Murmured laughter. Good-natured in origin, but Matthews didn’t take it that way. He felt they were all getting at him. Needling him for his relative inexperience. And because he didn’t know them and hadn’t known them for years, he wasn’t one of the gang. He tried not to blush. Failed.
‘All I was saying,’ he said, trying to stand his ground, ‘was that this is a police investigation. And it should only be current serving officers dealing with it.’
‘You don’t want to pool resources, then?’ asked Anni.
‘Why, what have you found?’
Anni smiled. ‘So you do, then.’
He didn’t answer. Just felt his blushing increase.
‘Well actually,’ Anni continued, ‘it’s us who should be asking you things. From what we’ve heard, you’re getting nowhere. Why is that?’
Matthews shared a wary glance with Imani. It wasn’t returned. ‘We may as well share,’ she told him. Matthews still wasn’t convinced. Imani smiled. ‘I trust these people. I know Anni, and Marina and I have worked together. We can share.’
Matthews looked from one to the other. If they were going to share, his expression said, he wasn’t going to be the one to do it.
Imani turned towards Anni and Marina. ‘We’ve been getting nowhere because the investigation seems to be getting nowhere. We managed to put a name to one of the victims yesterday, thanks to Simon here.’
She indicated Matthews. He appreciated the gesture. It was meant to be inclusive. He searched her features for signs that she was patronising him, could find none.
Imani continued. ‘We still don’t know how he actually ended up as one of the victims yet though. That’s to be discovered. And we just heard about the manner of death minutes before you two turned up. So that’s about where we are, really.’
Anni frowned. ‘Why has so little progress been made? You’d think this would be top priority.’
‘It seems that Beresford – the DS in charge – doesn’t seem in any great hurry to reach a conclusion.’
‘And would this be the same Beresford that was supposed to have been seen driving Phil away from our house?’ Marina knew the answer but placed the question for context.
‘The very same,’ said Imani. ‘Although he denies he was ever there. Car’s in the garage, apparently.’
‘Have you checked?’ asked Marina.
That was too much for Matthews. ‘Sorry, but are you questioning the integrity of the CIO for this investigation?’
All eyes turned towards him again. No one spoke. In the absence of sound, he felt the need to continue, to justify his outburst.
‘I mean… what are you suggesting? That’s he’s in on it? That he’s, I don’t know, deliberately trying to lead the investigation astray?’
‘I don’t know,’ asked Marina quietly, getting slowly to her feet. ‘Is that what it sounds like?’
Matthews bit back the response he had been about to make. Settled for a shake of his head instead. ‘Yes, I’ve checked. About the car. I phoned the garage. DCI Franks asked me to. I spoke to the owner and he backed up DS Beresford’s story.’
Imani – all of them – stared at him. Eventually Imani spoke.
‘Well, something seems to be going wrong with this investigation. Leads haven’t been followed up, facts have been, shall we say, obscured. And it all seems to lead back to DS Beresford.’
‘Or DCI Franks,’ said Anni.
‘I don’t think Franks would deliberately do this,’ said Marina. ‘And he’s not incompetent. No, he’s many things but, deep down, he’s one of the good guys.’
‘Very deep down,’ muttered Anni, semi-audibly.
‘So where does that lead us?’ asked Imani.
‘With a job to do.’ Anni thought for a few seconds. ‘We need someone to follow up this PM. Find out if anyone else on the database – nationally, not just in the area – has been reported as dying in this manner. We need to pool our resources about Fiona Welch’s background and childhood, what we’ve found there. I think we should take another crack at Michael Prosser. And also, we should do a bit of digging into this DS Beresford. See if he checks out.’
‘I’ll do the database checking,’ said Matthews, making for the door as he spoke.
‘OK, fine,’ said Imani. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’
Matthews had had enough. Now they were taking orders from someone who wasn’t even on the force. She worked in a gym, for Christ’s sake. A gym. And here she was dishing out orders. That was the final straw.
He would find out what was happening with this investigation, but, he thought, reaching the open air, he would do it his way.
34
Phil was staring at the ceiling. Or what passed for the ceiling. Staring up at the darkness where he thought a ceiling was. Or should have been. He had been asleep again. Or unconscious. One of the two. He didn’t know what time it was, what day it was. He barely knew who he was any more. Or if he was dreaming or awake. Either way, the nightmare he was enduring was so unreal it felt more than real.
His mind was spinning, warping in and out of what passed for focus. It kept skipping, reversing over what had happened. The memory thudding back to him like a wrecking ball. Apt. A wrecking ball to his psyche.
She had raped him. Raped him.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not physically or mentally possible. Yes, theoretically, maybe so. But not something that would have ever happened to him. Could have ever happened to him. An event so far out of the bounds of logic and experience that he couldn’t have even imagined it. Ever. Well, now he didn’t need to. It was there. It was real. It had happened.
He sighed, the weight of depressing reality on him like a physical thing. He wanted to run, scream. Throw himself against the wall just to see if he could still feel. Anything but lie here. Immobile; his mind running marathons through hell while his body remained bound. Or even just have the ability to curl up into a foetal ball. Put his hands over his head, keep the world and all its hurt out. Close his eyes, make it all go away. All the while his stomach was lurching, threatening to spew bile from his body like his head wanted to expel horrific memories. And he was helpless. Helpless.
The door opened. A hand felt the wall, put the light on.
Phil blinked at the sudden change. Kept his eyes closed until they gradually accustomed themselves then opened them fully.
‘What…’
The room had changed. It was no longer his bedroom. Or not the one he shared with Marina, at any rate. He looked around, stared at it. It still looked familiar but he couldn’t place it. Like a memory that was running out of synch with his mind.
Then he looked at the woman who had entered. She no longer looked like Marina. Her hair was shorter, lighter. Her clothes more conventional, those of an older woman. Her bearing was completely different. But something about the smile was exactly the same. That kind of gleeful madness couldn’t be disguised.
‘Good morning, Phil. Sleep well?’
He just stared at her, mouth open. Still trying to process this sudden change. No… no…
She stopped what she was doing, stared at him. ‘What’s the matter, Phil? You look confused. Don’t you recognise your own mother?’
‘My… What? Mother?’
She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying, laughed. ‘Are you still asleep, is that it?’ She came
over to him, sat on the edge of the bed. Took his hand in hers. ‘Yes. Your own mother. Eileen. Don’t you recognise me?’
Phil recognised the room now. It was the one he had been brought up in, when Don and Eileen took him in, adopted him. His old childhood bedroom. The first one that he had been able to truly call his own. He glanced at the bedside table, knew immediately it wasn’t really his old room. The same two capsules sat there.
He couldn’t bear to look any more. Either at the room or her. Kept his eyes firmly closed. Just felt the stroking of her fingers along his hand.
‘Why,’ he said eventually, his voice as broken as the rest of him, ‘why are you doing this to me?’
‘Doing what, Phil?’ Her voice all innocence.
‘This. All of… this. Why? What d’you want? What d’you want from me?’ Tears forming in the corners of his closed eyes.
‘Want from you, Phil? Nothing. Want to give you,’ he felt her body move closer to his, ‘yourself.’
He opened his eyes. She was right next to him on the bed.
He groaned. No… no… not again. ‘Please, no… Don’t touch me…’
‘What d’you mean?’ Again, all innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that. I’m not going to do anything again. I’m your mother, Phil. Or what passed for your mother.’
Her words triggered something. He found his voice. ‘Eileen was my mother. Not biologically, but families are more than a matter of biology.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more.’
‘You’re not my mother. You’re not Eileen.’ He was gripped by a stunned, impotent anger. ‘So stop playing games and tell me what you fucking want…’ The last few words shouted as loudly as he could.
She stared at him, not blinking for a length of time that he found unnatural for a normal person. Then stood up, her face as featureless and composed as marble. He held his breath, slowly realising what she had shown herself capable of until this point. Not knowing what she would do to him next, what indignity, what pain she would inflict. And that uncertainty scared him. More than that: terrified him.
