A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery

by Vogel, Vince

  What came out the other side, though, was not really his wife. When Marsha finally awoke from the coma, she had lost 70 percent of her brain functions. Her motoneuron functions were fried, and it made it impossible to control her body. She’d also lost her speech and all higher brain functions, and there wasn’t really much left of her. Of course, the fact remained that if Marsha had’ve had her own way, there would have been nothing left at all.

  Again Jack pondered the question of whether somewhere buried deep inside that body his old Marsha knew what was going on, had a window into it all and was trapped inside. Screaming but not being heard. He sensed this whenever he visited her on a supposed bad day, when she would scream and curse. The only actual word she ever said was “fuck.” During those tirades, he’d wonder whether his wife had a vague idea of her current quality of life. If she was fighting to break out of this shell that she’d become.

  The doctors, naturally, always said that this wasn’t the case. That in all probability Marsha knew nothing of where she was or what had happened. But Jack always feared that she did, and it made his guilt rise up even further.

  “There’s been another one of them killings,” Jack said to her as she slept. He often talked to her when he was here. It allowed him to get things off his chest. “You remember fifteen years ago there was a case involving a copper got nailed to a cross?” He waited for an answer that would never come. Another reach of his fingers across the void. “Well, last Sunday we found his daughter. It was terrible, Marsha. Some bastard had only gone and done the same thing to her. Remember I told you last month when I was here, about the girl we found in the woods nailed to the crucifix? So since then, we’ve discovered two more, one of them being this girl whose dad got killed.” Jack paused for a while. A sadness overwhelmed him momentarily at the thought that this was pointless. But he shook it off and continued. “I had to tell her mum. Poor woman. It made me think about Carrie. Made me think about her a lot. You know, she still hasn’t spoken to me. That first time she left, I thought that it would be a month at the most, but here we are over ten years later and still I haven’t had a word from her. Your sister, Carol, hasn’t seen her either for the past six years, so I don’t even get updates like that anymore. The last I heard, she was back in the nick. About a year ago. She got eight months for some benefits scam in Nottingham of all places.” Jack shook his head. “I mean, London’s pretty bad, but Nottingham for Christ’s sake. It’s a dead place.” He sat back and imagined his daughter. Wondered what she looked like. Jean had once set him up on Facebook so that he could find her on the internet. But he found nothing of Carrie on social media and gave up. Like with his wife, Jack was always a fingertip away from reaching across the void and touching his daughter. “So, anyway, another nutter on London’s streets. I wanted to hand it straight over to Serious Crimes, but Caldwell wants the hours for Upper Hackney. So as well as having to chase around finding dead girls, I’ve got to bump into all my old mates from Scotland Yard. It’s like this killer is teasing me. Or maybe it’s still God that has that privilege. Either way, it’s been an utter ball ache.”

  Somewhere toward the end of his speech the feeling that he was practically talking to himself became overwhelming, and he got up from his chair, bent down, and kissed Marsha on the forehead.

  “Goodbye, my sweet,” he whispered down to her. “Dream peacefully and happy birthday.”

  Jack took in one more look at the room and left.

  21

  Dorring sat in a threadbare armchair in the hotel room, gazing out of a small bay window. In the ink-black sky, the moon was shining brightly like a crescent of vanilla light in a never-ending darkness.

  A cough resonated from the bed behind him, and he turned. The girl was waking.

  Having passed out in the car on the way there, Alex had had to carry her upstairs to the room. The young guy on reception hadn’t even looked up from the video game he was playing on his phone, and Alex had gotten her all the way up and on the bed without notice. He had then undertaken the task of getting her wet clothes off, fearing all the time that she’d wake up any moment and accuse him of having a salacious purpose. But she only murmured a few times, and Alex could tell that she must have been exhausted when she escaped from the studio. The jump in the water had only finished her off.

  “How long have I been out?” she asked in a beleaguered voice, weakly sitting herself up in bed and rubbing her sore knee.

  “About four hours. Are you still cold?”

  “Not really.” She looked under the heavy quilt. “You undressed me?” she exclaimed gently.

  “I had no choice. Your clothes were soaking wet, and you needed to get dry. I’m sorry if this upsets you.”

  “No, it’s fine. Just surprising is all.”

  “I also had a look at your knee. It’s slightly swollen from the fall you had off the fence, but it’ll be fine by the morning.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  The girl sat up fully, pulling the quilt into her knees in a defensive position. She then took a look around the shabby room, its only window the one Alex sat in front of.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Chloe Casper.”

  “Like the ghost?”

  “Yeah. But not the friendly part.”

  “Why were those men following you, Chloe?”

  “They were keepin’ me at that place against my will.”

  “I could see that. But what made you so desperate to flee them that you’d throw yourself into the canal?”

  “Because I was scared what they’d do.”

  “And what would they do?”

  “Kill me,” she replied with absolute conviction.

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “Because that’s what’s happened to the other girls.”

  “What other girls?” he asked, his attention pricked.

  “The girls who’ve gone missin’. Haven’t you been watchin’ the news.”

  “And that place you escaped from has something to do with this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think that, Chloe?”

  “Because I know something the cops don’t.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I know who those two other girls were. The ones they haven’t identified.”

  “Who are they?”

  Chloe gazed at him for a moment and said, “First, I want to know who you are.”

  “Who I am is of no concern of yours.”

  “Then what were you doing at the canal?”

  “I was hunting.”

  “Huntin’ who?”

  “Men such as the ones that were chasing you.”

  “You found them, then, didn’t you.”

  “I did. And I found you too.”

  “Who are you?” she repeated, looking him straight in the eyes.

  Dorring studied her shivering frame for a moment and wasn’t sure how he should answer. As he always did when meeting someone for the first time, he asked himself if she could be trusted.

  “What do you know of the girl they’ve identified—Becky Dorring?” he said.

  Chloe’s eyes widened and she looked at Alex in a different way, as though she were suddenly recognizing him for the first time.

  “You knew Becky?” she asked.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course I did. That place I was getting away from, she used to work there too. Do videos and stuff.”

  “Is that what you did—videos and stuff?”

  Chloe’s face flushed red, and she turned her eyes away from Alex.

  “Yeah. It’s money. And when you’ve known the streets like I have, you learn to take money when you can.”

  “Even if it kills you?”

  “People die every day,” she said with an old woman’s cynicism. “When you can’t feed yourself from one day to the next, you take risks.”

  Alex gazed at her some more. She was the same age as Becky. She was in
trouble with the same people Becky was probably in trouble with; the desperation in her escape showed him that for certain. He couldn’t just leave her to that danger. She could end up in the same place as Becky. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He had to help this girl. He had to protect her.

  “What can you tell me about Becky Dorring?” he put to her.

  “She was a nice girl. Didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Over a year ago. She hasn’t worked there for a long time. Not since she had her breakdown. The last I heard, she was doin’ really well. Then I saw the news.” She paused for a moment, her eyes going misty. “It was really sad.”

  “And you think someone at that place is killing these girls?”

  “Yeah. That’s how I know those other girls. They worked there too. They were from Eastern Europe or somethin’. They were smuggled over to work in one of the brothels. They also did the live stuff. It’s more money. Then both of them went missing and turned up dead.”

  “Who do you think killed them?”

  “I don’t know. It’s gotta be someone there.”

  “But who?” he pressed her.

  She thought for a moment before looking him straight in the eyes and saying, “If I was to guess, I’d say Billy Doyle has somethin’ to do with it.”

  “The son?”

  “Yeah, the son. He’s an evil cunt—excuse my French. He often gets the girls to do terrible things. I’ve even seen girls with cuts on them, bruises, stuff like that. He beats them… and puts things in them.”

  She had become tearful toward the end of this statement, and Alex saw a hollowness add itself to her eyes.

  “Did he ever hurt you?” he enquired.

  Chloe sat there holding her legs for a moment and began rocking back and forth, her movements increasing as some horrific thought traveled through her.

  “Once he did,” she finally uttered. “But I don't want to talk about it.”

  “You never have to talk about it,” Alex assured her, looking upon her trembling form. “But I would like to talk about Becky Dorring.”

  “Who are you to her?”

  “I’m her brother. Did she ever tell you about me?”

  Chloe stared at him with a slightly startled expression, and her lips quivered, as though she were attempting to say something but couldn’t. Slowly a smile lifted them, before she quickly dropped it.

  “No,” she eventually said. “But in that place it’s not like we even talked. I never even knew her real name until it was on the news. She said her name was Roxy. I was Tricksy.” She rolled her eyes. “You always use a stage name. It’s like you’re another person. Like you’re not even there doing… those things.”

  “You think Billy Doyle did something to my sister?”

  “He could have.”

  “A minute ago, you sounded more sure.”

  “Yeah. But I don't know for certain. All I know is that girls who work there are going missin’ and turnin’ up nailed to a cross.” She observed Alex’s face flinch. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Carry on.”

  “Well, what with girls disappearin’, it has to be someone there. I mean there’s a lot of sick bastards that go to those places.”

  “Do you know the names of the other two girls?”

  “No. Just recognized their faces from the news. They gave stage names too. But I know for certain it was them.”

  Dorring held Chloe under his gaze, and she felt uncomfortable within the glare of his crystal-blue eyes. There was a hardness to them that she had witnessed many times in her life; it was the sign of an ossified heart. Of a person who had been beaten so hard by life and had lost so much that they had hardened into an impenetrable shell. She’d seen it so many times before—that look—in the eyes of people on the street. Hell, more than once she’d even observed it in her own eyes looking back at her from the mirror.

  “Why do you think my sister went to such a place as that?”

  “Why do any of us? For money. She needed money.”

  “Was she taking drugs?”

  Chloe squinted her eyes at Alex and studied him for a moment.

  “Did you even know your sister?” she put to him.

  The question stunned him, and he decided to tell the truth.

  “No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since she was eleven.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I lost touch with her. With myself. I spent such a long time away from this place that memories of her and my mother began to fade away until there was no real feeling left.”

  “And now there is?”

  “Yes. Now there is. Now she’s dead all I can think about is Becky. Isn’t that strange that we hold the dead in such reverence, but while they’re living we show them such contempt.”

  “I guess it’s because they’re gone forever. They’re never comin’ back. At least when someone’s alive, there’s always time to make it up to them if we’ve done them wrong. But once they’re dead, we’ve lost our chance. The relationship is dirtied for all eternity.”

  “Maybe there is one thing I can do to make part of it right.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Punish the men who hurt her. The men who made her do things. The men who abused her. And the man who killed her.”

  “Then you need to take out the Doyles. All of them. They’re evil scum. I’m sure if you start followin’ them, they’ll show you who killed your sister.”

  “And what makes you think I can do such things, Chloe Casper? For all you know I’m just a man.”

  “I saw what you did to those two gorillas that were tryin’ to drag me back. You’re not the average street thug, are you?” She once more pierced her eyes at him. “What exactly are you?”

  Dorring gazed steadily at the girl for a moment and began to see the face of his own sister superimpose over her. It was the one from the autopsy report—eternally asleep. Again the urge to protect this girl was all-powerful, and he looked away from her hardened eyes.

  “I have somewhere to go,” he said, standing up suddenly.

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere. You should stay here out of trouble. Rest up. You’re probably still cold.”

  “What am I supposed to do here?”

  “Wait.”

  “For how long?”

  “For however long it takes me.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “You can’t. There are some places you can’t follow. This is one of them.”

  A look of fright took hold of Chloe’s features, and she jolted toward him on the bed.

  “You can’t just leave me here,” she said in a despairing plea.

  “You’re quite safe. No one knows you’re here. Just wait for me. I won’t be any longer than four or so hours.”

  Her waif hand reached off the bed and grabbed ahold of his wrist. He glanced down at it, a strange look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe that she was actually touching him, that he expected her hand to go straight through him like mist.

  “Please,” she pleaded, looking up into his eyes.

  “You have to stay here,” he said softly. “I have some food in the bag by the bed. It’s not much, but it will fill your stomach. You look hungry. Just wait for me to come back.”

  “Then tell me where you’re going.”

  “I’m going to watch our friends and see what they do.”

  “Then you need to be careful.”

  “If you knew who I was, Chloe, you wouldn’t say such a thing.”

  He gently pulled his wrist from her hand, picked his rucksack up, and went to leave the room, but she called him back.

  “You never told me your name,” she said as he glanced back at her from the door.

  “Alex.”

  And with that, he left.

  22

  For most of the journey back from Ebury Court Care Home, Jack’s mind flittered through a
swarm of thoughts. Much of it had to do with his guilt concerning Marsha, which was a common aftereffect whenever he visited her, and this had predictably led to other thoughts. Thoughts about the past. About Col. About Beth. About his daughter. Driving home through the lamplit quiet streets his heart sunk inside of him. He felt such a loathsome creature as regards to all of them.

  Switching off the engine, Jack looked up at his house and noticed that the kitchen light was on, the glare of it shining from the side of the house. He was sure he’d turned all the lights off when he’d left that morning. It had always been a bug of Marsha’s, and, as he still considered it her house, he’d always been sure to switch them off.

  “Probably just Jean,” he said to himself, before getting out of the car.

  Upon reaching the front door, he was further alarmed to hear that the television in the lounge was on. Jean would never stay round the house watching television, and she was supposed to be at her salsa class tonight anyway. Feeling trepidatious, Jack quietly slotted his key in the hole and entered the house in a similarly hushed fashion.

  The lounge was situated at the back, and Jack could now hear the television clearly. With careful movements, he made his way across the dark hallway to the door, which was slightly ajar, a haze of light gleaming from it, and slowly pushed it open, peeking his head inside.

  On the couch sat a young boy no older than nine or ten watching television with that mesmerized look all children have when they’re glued to the screen. He was a little podgy, giving Jack the impression this wasn’t his first stint in front of the box, had black braided hair, and one of his front teeth was missing. The boy didn’t even notice Jack standing at the door and continued to watch his cartoons, a bag of crisps in his hand, pulling out handfuls and stuffing them into his mouth with impressive precision for someone not paying attention to what they were doing.