by Ben Cheetham
Linda slid an arm under her daughter’s armpit. ‘I don’t think we should move her,’ said Mark. But Angel was already standing, out of the car, her face as grey as the soot-stained brickwork of the little terrace. Step by tottering step, Linda guided her into the living room and lowered her onto the sofa.
‘Oh my angel, my poor little lost angel,’ whispered Linda, cradling her daughter’s head, fearfully tender.
Mark grabbed some towels from a radiator in the hallway and handed them to Linda. ‘Press them against the wound.’
As Linda did so, Angel grimaced and air wheezed between her lips.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ It wasn’t clear if she was apologising for the pain or for something else.
‘Where’s your phone?’ asked Mark.
Linda pointed at a sideboard. Mark snatched up the phone he saw there and dialled 999.
Angel’s eyes drifted around the living room. Nothing much had changed. Same three-piece suite, same carpet, same curtains. It was almost as if she’d only been away a few hours. Her gaze lingered on the shrine of photos of herself cluttering the mantelpiece.
‘I never gave up hope,’ said Linda. ‘I always knew you’d come back to me one day.’
Angel looked into her mum’s eyes. Her lips formed three silent words. I love you. Then a terrible stillness stole over her.
Linda pressed her face against her daughter’s, letting out a low keening sound that quickly built into a wail.
‘What is it?’ asked Mark, jerking round to face them.
‘She’s dead.’ Linda’s voice came muffled and choking.
Mark rushed to Angel’s side and searched vainly for a pulse. He thought about trying mouth-to-mouth. Then he looked at her face. All the pain had gone from it. Death had smoothed away the lines of rage and guilt. She looked as peaceful as a sleeping child.
‘My baby is dead… She’s dead…’ Linda gasped between sobs, clutching a hand to herself as if a steel claw was raking through her guts.
Mark stepped away from mother and daughter, suddenly feeling as if he was intruding upon some private rite. He turned towards the door at the sound of heavy footsteps lumbering along the hallway. A burly figure with close-cropped grey hair swayed into view. Mark’s heart lurched. Was this man another hired killer? Then he smelt the booze-reek steaming off him and saw the dull glaze over his eyes. If it was a hitman, he wasn’t in much of a state to do his job.
‘What the hell’s going on, Linda?’ Ron demanded, his eyes shifting between surprise, anger and wariness as he surveyed the grisly scene. ‘Who are these people?’
Linda shot her husband a look of pure, visceral hate. ‘This is our Grace.’
Ron squinted back at her as if uncertain he’d heard correctly. ‘What the fuck are you on about, woman? Grace is dead.’
‘Yes, she’s dead!’ Linda lifted her daughter’s head, so that her eyes gaped sightlessly at Ron. ‘Look at her. She’s our daughter, and she’s dead. Look at her, you bastard!’
Ron’s pouchy eyes blinked. He glanced around the room as if to make sure he was in the right house. Then his gaze fell to Angel. His jaw dropping slack, he lurched and put a tattooed hand out to steady himself against the sofa. He slowly reached towards Angel, thick ridges of scars on his knuckles showing bone-white against his tanned skin.
‘Don’t touch her.’ Linda’s voice burnt like acid. ‘Do you hear me? Don’t touch her or I’ll kill you!’
Ron’s gaze jerked to meet hers. She didn’t flinch from it. As his hands curled into fists, she thrust out her chin as if daring him to take his best shot. He loomed over her like an enraged bear, seemingly big enough to take off her head with a single punch. For a breathless moment they glared at each other. Mark found himself looking around for something he might use to defend Linda. He started to reach for a vase, unsure whether he had the strength to lift it, never mind use it to fight the bigger man off. But Ron’s hands suddenly dropped like a beaten boxer’s. With a noise that was half growl, half whimper, he turned and shuffled from the room. His feet dragged back along the hallway.
At the sound of the front door closing, Linda’s bony body seemed to collapse in on itself. Like a penitent, she folded her head against Angel and clung to her as though she would never let go.
22
Jim woke at the sound of a nurse tending to a patient in a neighbouring bed. He glanced at his watch. It was just after midnight. His mouth was like sandpaper. He reached for a glass of water, wincing as the memory of his drunken encounter with Bryan Reynolds kicked him in the head. Christ, what were you thinking? In the cold glare of sobriety, the answer was clear. He hadn’t been thinking. He’d been overwhelmed by anger and self-pity. You’re out of control. His thoughts echoed Reynolds’s words. Reynolds had been right about another thing too – he was a pathetic excuse for a copper. Just as he’d been a pathetic excuse for a husband. His threats against Reynolds were as empty as his personal life. He could no more bury Reynolds in a prison or a grave than he could make Margaret come back to him.
Margaret. Jim winced again at the thought of her. She would never have allowed things to get this far. She’d have seen the warning signs and forced him to take a step back from the job. Without her, he was blind to himself. He thought about what the doctor who’d treated him in triage had said. ‘You’ve been lucky this time. Next time it might be a heart attack for real.’
The doctor had performed an electrocardiogram and taken blood measurements to check for enzymes released into the blood from a damaged heart. The tests had shown that Jim wasn’t suffering a heart attack. He was relieved, but also confused. If he wasn’t having a heart attack, what was wrong with him? ‘It could be down to stress, or there might be some other medical condition behind the pain,’ the doctor had explained. As a precautionary measure, he’d insisted on admitting Jim to the Coronary Care Unit for observation. Jim had reluctantly agreed to stay.
After swallowing some water, Jim closed his eyes. Once again he saw Amy, saw the blood bubbling from her throat. But even that nightmarish image couldn’t keep his exhaustion-addled brain from sleep for long. What seemed like only minutes later, he was woken again, this time by the ringing of his mobile phone. It was Scott Greenwood. There were only two reasons for him to be phoning – either he wanted to talk about Amy’s death, or there’d been a development in the case.
A stern-faced nurse appeared at the head of the bed. ‘Switch that off,’ she said in an admonishing whisper.
‘It’s police business.’
‘I don’t care. All mobile phones must be switched off on this ward.’
His heart beating uncomfortably fast, Jim hurried from the ward and called Scott back. One thought kept hammering at his brain. Please don’t let Mark be dead. ‘What’s up?’
‘A call just came in from Mark Baxley.’
Jim closed his eyes and let out his breath. His relief was quickly tempered by another wave of apprehensiveness – just because Mark was alive didn’t necessarily mean he was out of danger. ‘Where was he calling from?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, but he’s at the Kirbys’ house.’
Jim’s eyebrows lifted high. ‘What the hell’s he doing there?’
‘No idea. But Grace Kirby’s there too, and she’s dead.’
‘Dead.’ Jim’s voice suddenly had a breathless edge. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Not one hundred per cent. All I know is that’s what Mark told the emergency operator. I’m on my way to the Kirbys’ house.’
Jim told Scott he’d see him there and returned to his bed. ‘What are you doing?’ asked the nurse as he pulled his clothes out of the bedside cabinet.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I really don’t think that’s advisable, Mr Monahan. Not until we’ve found out what’s behind your chest pain.’
‘Thanks for your concern, Sister, but something important has come up.’
‘Something more important tha
n your health?’
Jim hesitated for a moment, forehead creased. Then he continued dressing.
His thoughts sped even faster than the car’s wheels as he drove. How had Mark ended up at the Kirbys’ house with Grace? Had she somehow been involved with his kidnapping after all? He dismissed the question as soon as it came into his head. More likely the kidnapper had used Mark, and Grace’s parents, as bait to draw her out, and she’d died trying to protect them.
A constable was standing at the end of the Kirbys’ street. Beyond him the blue flashing lights of police vehicles and an ambulance illuminated the row of terraces. Lights were on in most of the houses. Their inhabitants watched the unfolding scene from their front doors and windows. Recognising Jim, the constable waved him by. As he got out of his car, Scott Greenwood approached him.
‘Where’s Mark?’ Jim asked.
‘In the ambulance.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. He’s pretty banged up. They’re about to take him to hospital.’
‘What about Grace?’
Scott indicated the Kirbys’ house with his chin. Jim knew what that meant. There was no more doubt. ‘How did she die?’
‘Well it wasn’t from natural causes. How are you holding up?’
Jim made no reply, but his haggard face was answer enough. He headed for the ambulance. Mark was lying on a stretcher. Jim’s stomach squeezed at the sight of his bloody pyjamas and bloodless face. One paramedic was applying a dressing to his shoulder. Another was giving him a shot of something.
‘How’s he doing?’ asked Jim, holding up his ID.
‘We need to get him to hospital ASAP,’ said one of the paramedics.
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘One of your colleagues already tried to. But what with the blood loss and morphine, Mark’s too out of it to—’ The paramedic broke off with a surprised look as Mark stirred and lifted his head.
‘Jim,’ he croaked.
Jim stooped over the stretcher. Mark’s eyes were flickering and rolling around. ‘It’s me, Mark. Who did this?’
‘Doc… tor…’ The word came slow and slurred.
‘Doctor Reeve?’
‘Yes.’
Jim’s eyes pinched at the corners as he thought, I knew it! I fucking knew it! ‘Anyone else?’
‘Chief… Bastard.’
‘Who’s the Chief Bastard?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Doc… barn. Grace killed him… Saved my…’ Mark’s voice dropped away to an inaudible murmur.
‘What about the Chief Bastard? Is he dead too?’
Mark gave a barely visible shake of his head.
‘I’m done,’ said the paramedic who’d been working on the bandage.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave the ambulance,’ his colleague said to Jim.
‘I’ll see you at the hospital, Mark.’ Jim gave Mark’s hand a squeeze before turning to leave. He watched the ambulance blare away from the street. Grace saved my life, that was surely what Mark had been trying to say. Heaving a sigh, he turned towards the Kirbys’ house.
‘Did he say anything?’ asked Scott.
‘Doctor Reeve is involved in this.’
‘We know.’ Scott pointed at an Audi being worked on by forensics officers. ‘That’s his car.’
‘Did you also know that he’s dead?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In a barn somewhere, I think. Where’s Garrett?’
Scott nodded at the Kirbys’ house. ‘Inside, talking to the mother.’
As Jim entered the house, he was greeted by the sound of someone sobbing relentlessly. Linda Kirby was slumped at a table in the tiny kitchen, blood-stained hands pressed to her face, shoulders quaking. A female constable had an arm round her. Garrett was standing to one side, watching Linda with a pained expression. Noticing Jim, a flicker of something that might have been sheepishness passed over his face. He left the kitchen, motioning for Jim to follow him into the living room.
Angel was laid out on the sofa, her sightless gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her vest had been cut open, exposing a wide-lipped wound and her breasts. Even in death, there was no dignity for her. A ball of shame, anger and something else, something close to grief, pushed up inside Jim. Keeping his face carefully expressionless, he forced it back down with a hard swallow.
‘We think she was stabbed,’ said Garrett. ‘Although we won’t know for certain until Ruth Magill examines her.’
‘Has Linda Kirby said anything?’
‘Not much. The woman’s almost incoherent with grief. She has told us that Mark and Grace arrived in the Audi parked outside.’
Jim gave his superior a meaningful glance. ‘Doctor Henry Reeve’s Audi.’
Garrett nodded without looking at Jim. His voice rose, as if the mention of the psychiatrist’s name was a personal insult. ‘This madness can’t go on, Detective. It has to stop. Do you understand?’
Jim looked at Garrett for a moment as if trying to decipher what he was saying. ‘Yes, sir.’ He thought about telling the DCI what Mark had told him. But then he thought, No, let the bastard stew on it a while.
Almost as if they didn’t know what else to do, both men continued staring at Grace Kirby’s corpse. ‘About DI Sheridan…’ Garrett began haltingly, but he trailed off, at a loss for words for once.
Scott Greenwood entered the room. ‘I was just speaking to one of the guys working on the Audi, sir. There’s a route plotted into the satnav from a location east of the city, not far from Thurcroft. Could be where this barn Mark mentioned is.’
‘What barn?’ asked Garrett, his forehead drawing into a frown.
Scott quickly brought the DCI up to speed. Garrett flashed Jim a sharp look as if to say, Why don’t I already know this? Then, perhaps realising that he’d been given a bit of what he deserved, he sighed. ‘You two get over there straight away. I’m going to follow Mark to the hospital.’
‘Mark won’t speak to you,’ said Jim.
‘We’ll see about that.’ As the detectives turned to leave, Garrett added, ‘And for God’s sake, be careful. Let’s see if we can make it through the rest of the night without any more casualties.’
Jim paused in the hallway and looked at Linda Kirby. In all the years Grace had been missing, she’d refused to accept her daughter was dead, hoping beyond hope that she would return to her one day. Her faith, if that was the right word, had finally been rewarded in the cruellest way imaginable. And now there was nothing left for her but grief. Part of him – the part that had witnessed time and again how living with daily violence sapped at the foundations of a person’s being – wanted to reach out and try to console her. But another part of him – the part that said she’d brought this upon herself by failing to protect Grace from Ron – wanted to shake her and shout, What the fuck did you expect to happen, you stupid, weak woman?
Jim ducked into his car and reached for his cigarettes. The triage doctor’s warning echoed back to him once more. He hesitated, but only briefly. His need for a smoke right then was far greater than any concern he might have about the state of his health.
Scott Greenwood rode in the Firearms Unit van. They sped through the streets, sirens shattering the silence of the city night. Fifteen minutes or so later, they reached their destination. Jim got out and turned full circle, squinting into the darkness. There was no barn. Just hedges, fields and trees. Away to the south a flickering orange glow lit up the sky. ‘Something’s on fire over there.’
‘I’ll find out if anyone’s called it in.’ Scott reached through the van’s window for the radio receiver. ‘There’s a barn on fire,’ he called across to Jim. ‘They’ve pulled a body out of it.’
They jumped back into their vehicles and set off again. A few minutes later, their path was blocked by a fireman who waved them to a halt. Beyond him the lane was filled by a line of thre
e fire engines. To the left of the road, flames leapt from the roof of a barn, twitching and hissing in the jets of water from the firemen’s hoses. ‘Where’s the body?’ Jim asked.
The fireman led the detectives to a tarp spread over the grass verge. As he pulled it back, the noxious smell of burnt flesh wafted out. Doctor Reeve was lying face down. His hair had been scorched off the back of his head. His shirt was a charred, bloody mess.
‘That’s how we found him,’ said the fireman. ‘We were told to leave him like that until the scene of the crime team gets here.’
‘Any word on when that’ll be?’ asked Jim.
‘No. Do you need anything else from me?’
‘Not for now, thanks.’
‘Looks like we’re going to be here for a while,’ said Scott. ‘I’d better let the firearms boys know what the crack is.’
Jim waited for his colleague to turn his back, then pulled on a pair of forensic gloves and rolled the body half over. The flames had barely touched the psychiatrist’s face, which was contorted into a frog-eyed mask of agony. The front of his shirt was drenched with blood. Jim unbuckled the psychiatrist’s belt and pulled his trousers down several centimetres, exposing a purple birthmark on his left hip. That confirmed it beyond all doubt – Doctor Reeve was one of the men from the DVD. It also confirmed which one of the remaining participants in that vile little piece of perversion was still alive. Jim summoned up a mental image of a broad-shouldered man with a hairless body and a circumcised penis. ‘The Chief Bastard,’ he murmured, quickly checking the doctor’s pockets. They were empty. He returned the body onto its front and headed for his car.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Scott.
‘The hospital.’
‘But the DCI wants us to work this scene.’
Ignoring his colleague, Jim ducked into his car. As he drove, he turned the image of the Chief Bastard over in his mind. The man had a similar physique to Bryan Reynolds. But he needed more than that to go on if he was going to identify him as Reynolds with absolute certainty. He needed whatever, if anything, Grace had taken from Herbert Winstanley’s office. Or he needed some extra morsel of information from Mark. Barring either of those things, he needed a miracle. And he didn’t believe in miracles.
