by Steve Mosby
‘A lot of them have such difficult home lives.’ She was still talking about the children. ‘They have problems I find hard to imagine. I was very lucky, in that I came from a loving home.’
Merritt smiled and nodded again, as though he had come from a loving home too. In truth, he could barely remember it. There had been a lot of water under that bridge.
‘They’re good kids deep down.’ Jennifer smiled fondly. ‘And you know what? They behave themselves here. They know to. Oh, there can be difficulties, of course, but we treat them with respect, and most of them appreciate that. They’re not used to it, the respect and discipline, but they repay it.’
‘I completely understand.’ Actually, Merritt did like that. Respect and discipline were things he found easier to relate to. ‘It must be demanding, though?’
Jennifer looked more serious now. ‘It is. Very demanding. We have a handful of volunteers, and they work very hard. But ask any of them and they’ll tell you – exactly the same as I’ll tell you – that there’s nothing more worthwhile.’
‘Of course.’ It was a spiel he was hearing – a pitch – and while understandable from her point of view, it wasn’t necessary. He leaned forward. ‘On behalf of my employers, may I ask you a somewhat personal question, Ms Buckle?’
‘You may.’
‘Are you a religious woman?’
She stared back at him for a moment, obviously considering what the right thing to say would be, in terms of what he might want to hear. He wondered what she thought of him. He probably looked a lot harder than she’d been expecting. While he was dressed professionally, in a neat black suit, he knew he still carried the bearing of the soldier he’d once been. At fifty, his body remained bulky and powerful, and he kept his grey hair buzz-cut short. His eyes, he knew, could be intimidating: a cold, clear shade of blue that expressed either hate or nothing. He waited for her answer, attempting to convey the latter, hoping that she would opt for honesty. He was pleased when she did.
‘I am not, Mr Merritt, no.’
‘That’s fine. Neither am I.’ He chose his next words carefully. ‘With my employers, the situation is more complex. But fundamentally, they believe that people need to work for their own salvation – and for the salvation of others. That is why they’re interested in you and the good work you do here. You don’t do it for reward. You do it because it’s right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘They’ll be pleased to hear that. But before we talk, I was wondering whether you might show me around?’
The tour was tedious but necessary, because what potential benefactor wouldn’t inspect the premises? There had to be at least an illusion of normality to proceedings. Merritt suppressed the yawns as Jennifer Buckle showed him the recreation room, with its battered pool tables and dartboards, the kitchen where they cooked basic food for the children at discounted prices, and then the small courtyard out back with a basketball ring nailed to the wall at a slight angle, the net ragged and dirty.
Tedious.
Merritt’s work often provided a stark contrast to his early years. He missed it sometimes – the thrill of it. The challenge. He’d seen combat early and repeatedly, while little more than a boy. Killing men had never bothered him, and the threat of being killed in return hadn’t frightened him. As an independent contractor in his thirties, the mercenaries he ended up working alongside would remark upon his coolness, even when he was shot in the abdomen and nearly died. That injury had forced him out of the company, and he’d found even less salubrious ways of making money afterwards. He would probably have continued to do so if an older officer hadn’t approached him with an ultimately more intriguing proposition.
Merritt was a capable man. He had contacts. He was trustworthy and discreet. And without scruples, the officer had added at the time. If he might be interested, the man knew of work available. It was a unique position. Nothing hardcore: a civilian post in many ways, but one in which his skills and discretion would be called for, and that lack of scruples even more so. A family were in need of community liaison work, research, and somewhat unusual security services. They required a dependable individual who could recruit similar men when necessary, and who could gather detailed information without notice. Privacy would be paramount. The money offered was excellent, and it was unlikely he’d ever be shot at again.
While it was true that Merritt hadn’t been particularly scared of the latter, the position had nevertheless appealed. And over the years, the work had turned out to suit him very well indeed. The money was better than promised, and he had come to enjoy moving in circles that a normal man would shy away from: meeting contacts, learning secrets, and making connections that even the police had proved unable to form. And no, he hadn’t been shot at although he had, of course, killed. On occasion, the work even brought a few unique stresses and challenges that kept life interesting. If it meant dealing with these moments of tedium, then so be it.
At the end of the tour, they returned to Jennifer’s office, Merritt content now with what he’d seen. It was all make-do: threadbare and on its last legs, and impossible for the volunteers to keep on top of. While Jennifer was clearly a woman who refused to give up, Merritt knew that things were coming to an end for her too. He had researched both her and the centre very carefully before reporting to his employers. Donations and funding here were at an all-time low, and the centre faced closure for real this time. The children who relied on this place for somewhere safe to come would soon arrive at its doors and find them closed.
Merritt sat down.
‘I would like to make you an offer,’ he said.
There were pens and papers on her desk. He reached across and wrote down a figure, then moved the paper over for her to see. Her face paled in shock.
‘I can’t possibly accept that much.’
‘But you need to,’ he said. ‘It would help to keep this place open. And perhaps it would also take some pressure off you personally. My employers would be happy for you to use the money as you see fit. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing with it.’
‘Even so. It’s far too generous.’
A charade. A dance. He could do without it; they all accepted in the end.
‘Ms Buckle,’ he said, again choosing his words with care. It had been one of the hardest things to adapt to over the years, this use of careful language. ‘My employers are very private people. They are also very rich, and they wish to do something good with the resources available to them. Over the years, I have facilitated a large number of charitable donations on their behalf. I would very much like to make one to you. You do good work here, Ms Buckle. It should be quietly recognised. It deserves to be.’
Jennifer looked at him for a moment, then down at the figure he’d written on the paper.
‘They want to leave a legacy?’ she said.
‘A legacy.’ Merritt smiled, and for the first time in the meeting it was genuine. ‘Yes. Exactly that.’
Groves
Angela Morris
‘Is this about Eddie?’ Angela Morris immediately shook her head. ‘What the hell am I talking about? Of course it’s about Eddie.’
Groves lowered the ID he was holding out.
‘Yes, it is, I’m sorry. Can we come in, please?’
The ex-partner of the burned man they’d found yesterday didn’t reply – just turned and headed off inside, leaving the door open behind her. Groves and Sean followed her inside.
It was actually a warmer welcome than he had been anticipating. Angela Morris had no criminal record, but rightly or wrongly, he’d still had certain expectations of the kind of woman who might end up in a long-term relationship with someone like Edward Leland, a man with multiple convictions. So he’d been surprised by Morris the moment she opened the door. The woman was young, pretty and well turned out, with neat sandy-brown hair and subtly applied make-up. She was slim, but it was a build that implied she looked after herself rather than going hungry, or supplementing her intake the
way her ex-partner apparently had.
Similarly, the house itself was decent: a well-maintained semi on the far side of the estate Leland had moved to. A nice enough area. From the plush suburbs further east it might look like part of the estate, but from the estate itself it was downright aspirational.
‘Through here,’ Morris called over her shoulder as they followed her down the hall. ‘Coffee?’
‘That would be good, thanks.’
They entered the kitchen. Like the hallway, it was spacious and clean, only this room looked like something out of a spaceship: black tiles with a hint of glitter to them, and under-cabinet lighting that covered the counters with a soft blue glow. Groves looked around. Everything was polished and new. At the far end, patio doors led out on to a small but sunny back garden, with a large red barbecue closed over on the deck.
‘Nice place,’ Sean said.
‘Thanks. This is all new. We had it put in last year. I did, I mean.’
‘Mr Leland didn’t contribute?’
Angela Morris gave Sean a slightly sour look at that. ‘No, Eddie didn’t contribute. He didn’t have that kind of money. He paid for the food here and there, and helped out with the bills when he could, which was about all I could ask.’ She sniffed. ‘How do you take your coffee?’
‘Black, please.’
‘Me too,’ Groves said. ‘And I’d just like to say, I’m really sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Morris gave him a curious look. ‘You know what? You’d be surprised how many people haven’t bothered saying that.’
‘No?’
‘Here.’ She handed over the coffees, then leaned back against the edge of the sink with her own. ‘People know what Eddie was like. The drugs and everything. And they figure that we’d split up anyway, so what would I care? My family had wanted rid of him for years. Everyone I’ve told has just said, What a tragedy, like it’s a piece of news or something. They don’t expect me to be affected at all.’
‘People can be like that.’
‘You know, I wish I didn’t bloody care,’ she said. ‘It would make the whole thing a lot easier.’
‘You broke up with him three weeks ago? Is that right?’
‘Yeah, about that.’
‘How long had you been together?’
‘Since forever. Apart from the times he was inside. Childhood sweethearts and all that. He was so lovely when we were younger. You wouldn’t have recognised him. Troubled, but lovely.’
She sounded wistful. However conflicted she was, it was clear she had still cared about Leland, or at least felt sad for the person he had once been. It happened like that, though, Groves thought. You loved someone, and when they changed a little, you accommodated it, even if deep down it made it slightly harder to love them. And then, a hundred changes later, you realised you were living with a stranger, and that maybe you were equally strange to them. The initial love between you ended up like some half-forgotten belonging in a room you’d both left a long time ago. By the end of the marriage, that was how it had been between Caroline and him.
‘Why did you break up?’ he said. ‘Was it because of the drugs?’
She hesitated, an expression of pain on her face. Then she shook her head and spoke softly.
‘No. They’d been there since the beginning. I never liked it, but I kind of understood. It was always on and off, but he couldn’t stay away from them for long. I suppose I just had to accept it really – that it was part of him, however much I hated it. But it didn’t made things easy.’
‘Was he back on them?’
‘I think so. He couldn’t afford them, though. He’d lost his job, and he was drunk most of the time instead. That’s my fault. He knew I’d have alcohol in the house, but I wouldn’t pay for drugs.’ She gave a sad laugh. ‘That’s what it came down to. You try to keep things working, you keep pretending, and that’s where you find yourself: I’ll pay for your vodka, but not your smack.’
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ Groves said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you can.’
Sean had drained his coffee; now he put the cup down on the side.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘You know any of the people he hung around with?’
‘Probably not as well as you lot do.’
‘We need to trace his movements in the days leading up to his death, so anything you can tell us would be helpful.’
She frowned now. ‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘There are some suspicious circumstances,’ Sean said. ‘We’re following them up.’
Suspicious was putting it mildly, of course. They’d both read the pathology report that morning. The condition of Edward Leland’s lungs indicated that he’d still been alive when the fire had begun. That would have been consistent with his having fallen asleep, of course, but more troubling were the lines they had seen in his cheekbones. According to the pathologist, they had been caused by an exceedingly sharp blade, one that had cut so deeply as to slice into the bone. There were a great many of them – far more than they’d noticed yesterday. Some time before he died, Edward Leland had had his face carved apart.
‘Did Eddie have any visible scarring?’ Groves said.
‘Scarring?’ She thought about it, and that told Groves everything he needed to know. ‘Not that I can think of. Nothing obvious.’
‘All right. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?’
‘How would I know?’ She leaned away from the counter, frowning. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’
The confusion seemed genuine to Groves, but Sean wasn’t about to let her off the hook.
‘What about you?’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘You. The pair of you had just broken up, after all. Lot of emotion flying around when a relationship falls apart, and when you throw drugs and booze into the mix, it can all turn nasty fairly quickly.’
‘I’d never have hurt Eddie.’ She seemed flustered, and again it appeared genuine. ‘It wasn’t like that. I loved him. I just couldn’t deal with it.’
‘Deal with what?’
‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
Sean took a step forward.
‘Ms Morris. There’s evidence that Edward Leland’s death was not accidental. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’
‘Oh God ...’
‘So whatever it is, you really do need to tell us.’
Groves moved forward to join Sean, brushing his arm slightly to signal that he wanted to take over again. Angela Morris was staring at the floor and shaking her head in disbelief. She looked horrified – either by what Sean had just told her, or at whatever it was that was running through her mind. He could sense the tension in her. She knew she was going to have to tell them something she really didn’t want to.
‘Eddie’s dead,’ Groves told her gently. ‘He’s not going to care if you talk to us. Especially if it helps us work out what happened to him, and who did it. It’s important.’
For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then:
‘It’s why I thought you were here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought you must have found something at his house. That he had more of them.’
‘More of what?’
‘The magazines. The ... things.’
Groves glanced at Sean, who shook his head.
‘You mean pornography?’
Morris nodded, but didn’t say anything else, just kept looking down at the kitchen floor, her hands trembling around the empty cup she was holding. Groves didn’t understand. Why would the pair of them have come to talk to her just because they’d found some ratty magazines at Leland’s place?
That was when it clicked.
‘These weren’t ... normal pornographic magazines.’
‘No,’ Morris said quietly. ‘They weren’t.’
All three of them were silent for a few seconds. And then, before anyone could say anything else, she th
rew her empty cup across the kitchen.
‘Here.’
They were standing outside on the back patio. The warm air was solid and heavy around them, and the sun glinted off the domed crimson lid of the barbecue. Angela Morris opened it gingerly, like she was turning over a rock that might have something dangerous underneath. The stink drifted up as the mess inside was revealed. Groves smelled burned paper, old ash, stagnant water.
‘Eddie tried to put it out when he got home. But it was too late by then. So he just sat down and started crying.’ She pointed. ‘Right where you’re standing, in fact.’
She stared down at the barbecue with a blank expression on her face, seeming oddly calm now. It had taken Groves and Sean longer than her to recover from the cup incident; it was as though the act had released all the pent-up emotion inside her, and that was that. But it also seemed like a part of her had broken along with it. As she swept up the shattered pieces, she had explained to them what she’d found, her voice a monotone.
It had been hidden away upstairs in a shoebox at the back of the wardrobe, she said. Leland had been out looking for work, but he’d seemed strung out that morning, and she suspected he was using again. That was one of her rules – no drugs in the house. So in his absence, she’d gone through all the possible hiding places, expecting to stumble on the needles and wraps she’d sometimes found in the past. It would cause another argument, but she’d forgiven him on those occasions, and no doubt she would have done so again. But instead she’d found a stash of a different and far more awful kind. One that she had ultimately decided was some distance beyond forgiveness.
The material had been a mixture of professionally produced magazines, photocopied pages stapled into book form, photographs, hand-drawn pictures and printouts from the internet. The majority of it was violently pornographic. The scenes in the magazines looked staged, but some of the miscellaneous printouts were all too clearly real. A great deal of the homemade stuff had involved children. She hadn’t looked through everything, Morris said, but the stuff she did see was ugly and unbearable. And it was without doubt a collection. One that had grown over time, and that had been taken out in secret and pored over.
