A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  No one speaks. Then Samantha Chase says, very quietly, ‘If that’s the case, it might explain quite a few things. About Judith, I mean.’

  Another look passes between herself and her husband, some kind of understanding. He nods his agreement with what she has just said.

  ‘Mind you, Miss Freeman,’ he says, then adds as an afterthought, ‘Julia, if you don’t mind my calling you that . . .’

  ‘Please do,’ I say, relieved to drop the formal mode.

  ‘You know, Julia, I would never, not even in my wildest dreams, have entertained such an idea as you’re suggesting. Neither of us would. But in the light of what you’ve told us . . .’

  Again he leaves the sentence unfinished, though the thought is complete.

  ‘I have no proof,’ I say. ‘And apparently there’s not much chance of finding any. But I’m grateful to you for listening to me.’

  Suddenly I cannot say any more. A wave of terrible depression overwhelms me. I realize I have been holding it at bay for months now, even years, forcing myself to believe that eventually I would find something, some long-forgotten detail, that would lead me to the discovery that would change everything. But now it seems that I have failed, as I was always bound to. It is a hopeless task that I have set myself.

  I must leave now, quickly, before I lose control. These people do not need my tears. I hope I do not seem rude. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I start to say, but have to clear my throat and swallow hard to get the words out.

  Samantha Chase’s hand is on mine, firm and reassuring, holding me. ‘Stay where you are,’ she says. ‘You’re having supper with us.’

  I start to protest. ‘No, you’re very kind, thank you, but I . . .’

  ‘Really We want you to. Please stay.’

  Suddenly I realize how much I also want to. ‘Thank you,’ I say, in a whisper. My eyes are pricking. Damn!

  But I hold on. I am going to be all right.

  58

  Over supper Warren Chase asks me what I do when I am not busy trying to be a part-time sleuth, though he does not put it quite in those terms.

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ I say.

  They nod their approval, the way people often do when they hear this. But a look of concern passes over Samantha Chase’s face.

  ‘This must be costing you a lot of money, the travel, everything you’ve been doing. Is anyone helping you?’

  ‘No – I’ve managed to fit in some additional private nursing recently. It pays well.’

  ‘And what about your mother?’ Warren Chase asks. ‘You live with her, you said. How is she coping with it all?’

  They listen sympathetically to my rather flat recital of the obvious – that life is not easy for the wife of a murderer, a man dubbed by the press as ‘The Monster of Hell House’. Her business fell apart after my father was arrested. All her clients evaporated in less than a week, every one of them with hand-wringing excuses and expressions of sympathy, none of which changed the simple fact that they no longer wished to be associated, however indirectly, with the name of Freeman. She was forced to sell the house in Saracen Springs and we moved to the outskirts of Philadelphia, which was close enough to where my father was in prison to make visiting him possible and not ruinously expensive. She found work as a book-keeper for several companies on a freelance basis, but whenever our history was uncovered, as it invariably was, she was quietly let go. For a while she worked on checkout in a supermarket, but for the past three years has worked for a contract cleaning firm. She is one of a regular team who goes into the offices of a large insurance company between ten at night and six in the morning. We spend as much time together as we can at weekends, sometimes visiting her family. She has no friends, apart from some of the women she works with, most of them Mexican, one or two from eastern Europe.

  ‘And what about you?’ Samantha Chase asks. ‘Did you have problems at school?’

  ‘I had to move once,’ I tell her, ‘when the bullying got too bad. But that was not long after the trial. After that, I was luckier. Freeman isn’t too uncommon a name. People didn’t always make the connection automatically.’

  It is almost ten when I leave. Warren Chase has insisted on calling me a cab which, despite my protests, is pre-paid on an account he has with the firm. They both hug me at the door. ‘Now remember,’ he says, holding me at arm’s length with his hands on my shoulders, ‘any kind of help we can give you, anything at all, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Please believe that, because we really mean it,’ his wife says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling tears well up again, knowing I must get away before they do. ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Be sure to stay in touch,’ he says.

  ‘I will,’ I promise.

  I am grateful for the taxi, realizing that I am more tired than I thought. Also, my hotel is in a part of the city where I do not particularly like the atmosphere at night. From the way he accelerates away after dropping me, I suspect the cab driver feels likewise. I start up the three or four steps to the hotel door, and am reaching out for the bell that will bring the night porter to open it, when I sense more than see somebody watching me. I turn my head to look, telling myself as I do that this is probably a mistake; I should ignore whoever is there, press the bell, and get inside to safety.

  The street is patchily lit, and I can just make out the silhouette of a man. He is slim, not very tall, and seems to be wearing a long overcoat. As I look, he takes a step forward.

  ‘Miss Freeman?’ he says.

  ‘Y-yes,’ I say warily, surprised to hear my name.

  ‘Julia Freeman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  My hand is still outstretched, ready to press the bell, but I hold back for some reason. The man takes another step towards me. I can see his face now. It is thin, cleanshaven, sallow-looking. His hair, which is jet black, is brushed straight back and glistens with some kind of gel. It is difficult to guess his age; he could be forty or as much as a decade or more older. We regard each other, I on the steps looking down at him, he looking up at me. He seems about to say something, then changes his mind. For a moment I have the strange impression that he himself knows no more than I do what he is doing here.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, prompting him. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I . . . I think we should talk,’ he says, as though it requires something of an effort to make up his mind about this.

  ‘What about?’ I ask, still not moving away from the door of my hotel, though I have lowered my hand from the bell.

  He frowns, as though struggling to recall why it is he wants to talk to me. There is something strange about him, something wrong. I am starting to feel alarmed.

  But then he says, ‘It’s about Brendan Hunt. I think I can help you.’

  59

  The street is oddly quiet, more so than I have known it over the few days I have been here. A single car crosses an intersection in the distance, but apart from that there is no traffic, nor can I see anyone walking.

  I have stepped down to the sidewalk and now stand facing the man. He is short, barely my height. His hands remain thrust deep in the pockets of his belted overcoat. He could whip out a knife or gun, I tell myself; but somehow I do not think he is about to.

  ‘Who are you?’ I say.

  He frowns, looking down. I cannot make out whether he is wondering if he should tell me his name, or trying to remember it.

  ‘Lenny Rearden,’ he says eventually, and looks at me, as though he has clarified something in his mind and now recalls what it is that he has to do. ‘My name is Lenny Rearden,’ he repeats. ‘I was at school with Brendan Hunt. I . . . well, I should have given you this some time ago. You, or somebody. It could have made a difference.’

  Without my quite noticing the movement, he has taken one hand from his pocket and reached into his coat for something. Now he is holding out a folded square of paper, inviting me to take it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll
see. Take it, please.’

  I do as he asks, opening up the paper in the light of the yellowish street lamp. It is a faded piece of newsprint, cut from a larger page. And it is in German, a language I studied for a time at school, but which I do not speak at all.

  As though in answer to the question I am about to ask him, he points at the smudged picture of a teenage girl at the head of the story. According to the caption, her first name is Hannah; the second I can barely read, let alone pronounce.

  ‘We went on a school trip once, to Germany,’ Lenny Rearden is saying. ‘One night in Hamburg we were let off the leash for a couple of hours. We did the strip clubs, porno shops, the obvious stuff for a bunch of horny fifteen-year-olds from the Midwest. At one point I saw Brendan Hunt talking with this girl in an amusement arcade. I only got a glimpse, but I’m sure it was her. Then they disappeared. When I saw him later I asked him what had happened with the girl. He said there wasn’t any girl, I was mistaken. Then, the next day, I saw this in one of the local papers.’

  He pauses, his eyes still fixed on that piece of faded newsprint as though it is a cue-card he is reading from, and on which he has lost his place for a moment.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I say. ‘How is it going to help me?’

  He blinks as though trying to clear his thoughts, then shifts his gaze from the paper and refocuses on some point in space in front of him.

  ‘I never told Brendan I’d seen this. I never told anyone. I didn’t want to believe it, I guess. Or couldn’t. But I’ve kept it ever since.’

  ‘Please,’ I say, ‘just tell me what I’m supposed to do. I don’t understand any of this.’

  Now he looks at me, and again I get the strange impression that it takes him a moment to focus, to remind himself who I am and why he is talking to me.

  ‘Check this out,’ he says after a few moments, as though this advice is one of several alternatives he has had to choose from. ‘I should have done something about this years ago. In a way it’s too late now. But maybe not.’

  I look at him, praying that he’s not some lunatic, the kind of weirdo who goes to the police and confesses to every major crime he hears of.

  ‘Keep that,’ he says, ‘it’s yours now. Just check it out, that’s all. I have to go.’

  He takes a couple of steps back, looking at me earnestly as though to be sure I have understood him, then turns abruptly and starts to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ I say quickly. ‘Where will I find you?’

  He pauses, swivelling briefly to look back at me.

  ‘You won’t need me. That’s all you need. Just do as I say – check it out.’

  Again he starts to walk away. I feel frustrated and helpless.

  ‘How did you know about me?’ I call after him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he calls back. ‘Just do it.’

  I look down again at the piece of paper in my hand, with its impenetrable language and its smudged picture of a girl who could be anybody. I must at least get a phone number for him. I look up.

  But he has gone. I can still hear in the distance the sharp click of his retreating footsteps, but he must have turned into an opening on his left that I cannot see from where I stand, and I do not feel inclined to chase after him in the dark. I will find him again if I have to. Lenny Rearden.

  For the moment all I need is someone who understands German.

  60

  It has only been two months, but they have felt like years.

  Murray Schenk agreed to help me out. He must be in his middle or even late seventies now, but he has changed little. He still fishes. And he still thinks about Melanie Hagan, and my father. He has never been sure that justice was done, and it troubles him deeply.

  As soon as I had the newspaper story translated into English I took it to Murray. It contained all the details he needed, including the name of the investigating officer – who, he was able to find out with a few phone calls, was still alive. The crime itself was remarkably similar in its violence and sexual savagery to the murder of Naomi Chase.

  I decided I would tell my mother nothing of what was going on. To get her hopes up only to be disappointed yet again was too cruel. There is a dullness and a sense of defeat in her eyes these days that I find unbearable. Her face is lined and thin, her hair almost entirely white. I shall need to be sure before I say anything to her.

  It took every last cent I have, what with plane fares to Europe and lawyers’ fees, together with a host of connected expenses. But today the call came. Now I am sure.

  She sobs helplessly, like a child. I hold her in my arms.

  The Germans had kept DNA samples from the murder scene. They match exactly Brendan Hunt’s. Both Murray Schenk and the lawyer who defended my father at his trial say that there is no doubt that the case will be reopened. Equally, there is no doubt that my father’s conviction will be quashed and he will be freed. There will be compensation, our lawyer says, probably substantial, though that matters little to my mother and myself. Nonetheless, it will be useful. My parents will have to rebuild their lives from nothing. They will need money.

  I have put my mother to bed. She is exhausted. I even suggested she take a sleeping pill. That is something I rarely advise, but she is too excited to sleep otherwise, and she needs a good night. Tomorrow she will wake up to the dawning realization that her nightmare is over, that the good news she thinks she has only dreamed about is actually true, that her life is about to begin again.

  The doorbell rings. I look at my watch. It is after eleven. I do not know who can be calling at this hour. I look through the spy-lens, and see Murray Schenk. I open the door.

  Something in his face makes my heart tighten, creating a hollowness in my chest, filling me with sudden dread. He has come with bad news, I am sure. Something has gone wrong.

  ‘Easy,’ he says, ‘take it easy,’ steadying me with a gentle hand. ‘I just want to talk, that’s all. Nothing’s happened. Well,’ he corrects himself, ‘I can’t say nothing. But nothing necessarily bad.’

  We sit down in our small living room. Murray Schenk unbuttons his coat but keeps it on because I have turned the heating off and the air is already chill. He is frowning, unsure where to begin, or how.

  ‘This man Rearden,’ he says eventually, ‘you couldn’t find him in the phone book, you said. You never saw him again after that night in Chicago?’

  ‘Never. You know that. Why?’

  Schenk chews on his lower lip a moment.

  ‘Come on, Murray,’ I say, ‘what’s this about?’

  He looks at me. ‘Well, it doesn’t make a whole lot of difference now, because we checked out that piece of paper like he said . . . and, well, it all fell into place.’ He pauses. ‘But you didn’t get that newspaper clipping from Lenny Rearden. So I was just wondering if you’d tell me where you did get it.’

  I stare at him, dumbfounded. ‘Murray,’ I say, ‘it happened exactly the way I told you it happened. Why would I lie?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you’re protecting somebody. Or maybe the guy, whoever he was, lied to you and said he was Lenny Rearden.’

  ‘I don’t get this. Why shouldn’t he have been Lenny Rearden?’

  Murray Schenk’s gaze is absolutely steady, and there is some emotion in his eyes I cannot read. It is a cop’s trick, perhaps, or just the habit of a lifetime, an instinctive ability to mask, when necessary, his true feelings from the person he is talking to.

  ‘Lenny Rearden was killed in an automobile accident in Texas,’ he says flatly, ‘ten years ago.’

  For a moment I think that I am going to faint. I remember thankfully that I am sitting down, then wonder – absurdly – what happens if you faint while you are sitting down. Do you roll forward to the floor, or fall back safely?

  Murray Schenk is watching me, observing my reaction.

  I begin to stutter. ‘But . . . but you just said . . . it checked out . . . that report . . . the DNA . . . everything.’
/>
  ‘Sure, it checked out. But the guy who gave it to you doesn’t.’

  I shake my head slowly. I have no words. I do not know what to think.

  ‘What did he look like, this Rearden guy?’

  ‘He was shorter than you,’ I say. ‘Trim build. Long overcoat. He had dark hair, brushed back.’

  ‘Is this anything like him?’

  Schenk leans over and hands me a small black-and-white photograph.

  ‘That’s him,’ I say. ‘That’s the man I met. Lenny Rearden. I don’t understand.’

  Schenk looks back at me. ‘Nor do I.’

  We sit in silence for some moments.

  ‘For God’s sake, Murray, what are you telling me? That I saw a ghost?’

  He shrugs. ‘I would say, on that count, that your guess is as good as mine. If not better.’

  ‘But . . . is this going to make any difference? To my father?’

  Murray turns his mouth down at the corners, tips his head slightly to one side and then the other. ‘No reason why it should. Though I don’t see a whole lot of need to tell everybody about it. The information you got from this guy, whoever or whatever he was, was good. That’s all that matters. There’s no reason to believe you acquired any of it, including this piece of paper, by illegal means.’

  Again he pauses, his eyes on mine.

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘absolutely not!’

  ‘In that case, I think we’re fine.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Forget this conversation ever took place. Nobody else is going to ask you about it.’

  I walk with him to the door, where I give him a hug and kiss him on the cheek. He says he’ll come by tomorrow to see my mother. She needn’t know about this either. He leaves, and I lock the door behind him.

  There is no sound except the distant traffic. I look in on my mother. Her breathing is deep and steady. The sleep of the just – with a little help from pharmacology. In spite of what I have just been through, or perhaps because of it, I feel exhausted myself. I head for the bathroom, push open the door, and pull the cord that switches on the bright and unflattering overhead light.