Souls of Men

by A. R. Ashworth

  When he spoke, his voice was flat, articulated. “That’s a cop-out. Everything you do to a person is personal from their point of view. There’s no such thing as ‘just business.’ Let’s start with this. Do you know how hard it is for me to get past the fact that you thought I was a murderer? That the entire country thought, still thinks, I am a murderer?”

  She felt like she was on the defensive, and she didn’t want to be. She needed to shift the argument. “See, that’s what I mean. It’s not true. I never thought you were a murderer. I thought you were a suspect. You could have been a murderer, but I didn’t know the truth about you then.”

  “There were moments when you certainly sounded like you thought I was.”

  “I was doing my job. It’s not always pleasant, and it’s rarely nice. I had to get at the truth, and the only way to do that is to gather evidence and ask tough questions.”

  Willend looked out his window, watching the parades of shops and rows of terraced houses scroll past. “And I thought you lot acted on hunches and experience. What you’re saying sounds scientific.”

  It was spoken like a sneer. Elaine had to remind herself not to lose her temper. She continued. “It is, when done properly. We’re taught to assume nothing, believe nothing, challenge everything. Experience certainly helps, but sometimes it can get in the way too. You have to learn how to use it. For me to find the truth, I rely on training and discipline, then add the experience.”

  Willend snorted. “I thought the police’s job was to investigate, gather evidence, and then let the courts decide what’s true.”

  “We have to construct a solid case. Else how can a jury get it right?” Elaine checked traffic, downshifted, and turned. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m not the kind of copper who fits people up.”

  Willend turned in his seat and fixed his eyes on her. “So the truth matters to you, then?”

  “Beyond anything you can imagine! Why do you think I became a cop? Is there justice without truth?”

  Willend laughed. “There was no truth or justice as far as I was concerned, wouldn’t you say? Do you want to hear the real, uncomfortable truth?” Willend’s voice rose. “The truth is that I’ve been hounded by you people and jailed for no reason other than I happened to take a particular bus home from work. The truth is that I’ve been set up as a murderer by you and then had my name blasted across the nation by the sleazy tabloid hacks that masquerade as journalists over here. And the outcome of all of it is that I will very likely be hounded by those hacks until you catch the real killer. And even beyond if they think it will give their readers a thrill by dredging up an old story. I can see it now! ‘It’s the first anniversary of Sheila’s murder, so what’s Dr. Death doing these days?’ Jesus. I may never fucking get out of the news. Did you ever consider what your actions would do to my reputation? My career? Do you have any idea?”

  Elaine pulled the car to the side of the road and turned to Willend. “Our first responsibility is to find justice for the victim, Dr. Willend. And however it shakes out, the evidence, the law, and the jury will ensure justice for the suspect. We were doing our job. I . . .”

  Willend interrupted her. “A minute ago you said there’s no justice without truth. You’re right, there’s not. There’s been damn little truth in the way I’ve been dealt with. And because of that, there’s been no justice for Sheila either. You’re back to square one, aren’t you? Admit it.”

  Despite taking a deep breath, Elaine had trouble keeping her voice steady. “It’s not like there’s a bloody big flashing sign that points the way to the truth. Like I said, we have to find it. We have to turn over ugly rocks and inspect all the slimy things underneath. We have to pressure people and disrupt their lives. If that means saying provocative things, asking disturbing questions, then, well, we have to do it. It’s never pleasant. Murder isn’t pleasant. It’s never convenient for anyone.”

  She shifted the car into gear and pulled back into the traffic. “And one more thing, it’s because I, because we, searched for the truth that you’ve been released. Did you think about that?”

  Willend stared out the car’s window, his eyes tracking the people hurrying along through the rain. He appeared to be gathering himself. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. “All during this, I was trying to read you. It wasn’t as easy as reading Benford, but I got the impression you disagreed with him about me. Is that true?”

  Elaine considered her answer. They were talking about truth, after all. “I was never convinced he was right about you.”

  “Why not?”

  She plunged ahead. “The way you reacted when we first interviewed you. The pictures on your piano. The ones of you and your wife and daughter. The relationship you appear to have with your mother and sister. You care deeply about the foundation kids and their families. Then you helped Benford when he had the heart attack. You tried to prevent it. All that together, I guess. You respect women and you care about fixing what’s wrong. And you seem to try to do the right thing, regardless.”

  They were both silent until she pulled the car under the portico at Willend’s house. “Here you are, Dr. Willend.”

  Willend opened the door, paused, and looked at her. She sensed a churning behind his eyes and saw him breathe deeply before he continued. “Thank you for that. For what you said just now. And for being honest with me. I’m going to the hospital as soon as I can to try to save my job. Would you please call Owen Clayton? I need him to know you’ve released me and that I’m no longer under any suspicion.” He stopped before he closed the car door. “And call me Peter. I can’t help but wish that we’d met under different circumstances.” He closed the door and disappeared into his house.

  What was that about? “Call me Peter?” She doubted she would ever get the chance. Willend was an interesting man, successful, decent looking and smart, musical and witty, but there was darkness inside him. Intense sorrow, she thought. She reversed the car and headed for the industrial estate. She would call his boss as soon as she could.

  TWELVE

  Owen Clayton put down the phone and looked across his desk at Peter. “It was that police inspector. She confirmed what you’ve told me. Even with that, I can’t promise it will change the board’s decision.”

  “Why not? Nothing can touch the hospital if I’m no longer a suspect. I’ve been exonerated.”

  “Have you talked to Sjolin at the foundation?”

  “No, I haven’t. I didn’t see any point until I spoke with you.”

  “Well, I have talked with him, as has Lindsay. He’s upset to say the least.”

  “Okay, I’ll give him a call right away.”

  Clayton held up his hand. “Peter, there’s really no point right now. Sjolin and the other foundation directors have spoken with Lindsay. You know how hospitals are. Rumors have been flying. All the TV and tabloid press coverage stirs the pot. Lindsay can’t be seen as complacent, especially where the hospital’s image is concerned. Sjolin has to think about the foundation first, philanthropists being what they are and all. He’s appointed Sheena as head of the foundation’s reconstructive team. For God’s sake, Peter, you were a suspect in a murder!”

  Peter stood and leaned over the desk, glowering at Clayton. “But I’m not anymore! I’ve been exonerated! You heard it yourself, from the detective in charge of the investigation. What more do you need? The greedy bastard who owns those tabloids will rule us all as long as we let him. What’s the saying? ‘All it takes is for good people to do nothing’? My god, don’t any of you have the balls to stand up for what’s right?”

  Clayton shook his head. “Peter, sit down, please. Look, we have to distance the hospital from anything about this investigation, at least until people have moved on to the next scandal. You’ve got to stay away until this thing is wrapped up, then perhaps we can talk about you coming back.”

  “Perhaps? I see. I always pegged the board members as gutless ass-kissing sons-of-bitches. But not you, Owen. I
thought you had a backbone. Don’t you feel the least bit culpable in the destruction of my career?”

  “You’d be back in A&E tonight if it were up to me. But I’m just the messenger.”

  “Yeah, right. How long is this supposed to last?”

  “I have no idea. I know only what I’ve told you.”

  “Is Lindsay here?”

  “There’s a conference in Edinburgh this week.”

  Peter left without another word. Perhaps it was a good thing that Lindsay wasn’t there.

  * * *

  From the chair in front of his large bedroom window, Peter could see the glittering tower of the Shard in the distance. He remembered how he had thought it was an unfortunate eyesore when it was under construction, but now that it was complete, he realized it was a masterpiece. He enjoyed watching the late afternoon sunlight play on the glass planes of its surface. So he sat, his mind drifting, staring over the rooftops at the lovely jagged glimmer in the distance, until a soft, familiar voice jogged him out of his reverie.

  “It’s times like these when you really need someone.” Diana sat in the smaller chair set at an angle at the base of the window. Her eyes were in shadow, but the glow of the fading sunlight played on her copper hair and caught the straight line of her jaw.

  “And you’re always here for me, aren’t you?”

  “I always will be. What happened can’t change that.”

  “Me too, Daddy. We’re both here for you,” Liza said. Peter felt her take his hand.

  “I know, sweetie, and it always helps me to know that.”

  “Mommy says that we’ll always be there with you.”

  Peter’s eyes met Diana’s. “She’s right. You and Mommy are always with me, no matter what.”

  “But we’re not really there, you know. I mean, like before. I was talking with Mommy about that. I had some questions.”

  “Like what? What questions did you have?”

  “I was wondering like you and Mommy always told me to do. It seems like we don’t talk about silly stuff anymore. And we can’t go swimming and ride horses at the ranch with you and Romero. Or go shopping with Nana and get ice cream. It’s like we only get glimpses of you, and it’s always when you’re alone.”

  Memories welled up in his mind. He looked at Liza. “Do you remember that petting zoo we used to go to? The one outside New Braunfels? The one with all the baby goats?”

  Liza’s face lit up. “Yes! I had a bottle of milk and all the baby kids were mobbing me. And when you bent over to help me feed one, a billy goat butted you in your rear and knocked you over!” She howled with laughter. “And Aunt Kate took your picture. You were sitting on the ground and the billy goat was standing there looking at you.”

  Peter nodded. “I still have that picture. It’s on my desk upstairs.”

  Liza asked, “How is Aunt Kate?”

  “She’s fine. She’s in Italy with Nora.”

  “I never met Nora. I would have liked to, but that was after. Is Nana okay?”

  “Yep, she is. She went to Antarctica on a cruise ship. Then she’s going to Machu Picchu before she comes home. You remember the book you had about Antarctica, right?”

  “Yes. There are a lot of penguins there, and it’s so cold the male penguins hold the eggs on their feet to keep them from freezing. Nana really gets around, doesn’t she?” This prompted chuckles from Peter and Diana. “But I want to know what’s going to happen with you. And why every time I see you, it seems like you’re sad. Or frightened from what happened. I really don’t want you to be sad. I don’t think Mommy does either.”

  “Ah. I see. It helps to know that you both feel that way. I guess you stay with me in my heart until those times when I really need to be with you. Then you come out and we talk.”

  “Or maybe that’s when you let us out? When you’re alone and sad? Or scared?”

  “Perhaps. It’s when I miss you and need you the most. What do you think about that?”

  Liza looked at Diana, then back at him. “It feels good to be able to help you. But I wish you didn’t need our help. I wish you weren’t always so alone. There’s nothing we can do about what happened. I think we’d rather stay in your heart, because that’s when we know you’re busier and happier. I mean, we know we’ll always be there. We both love you so much.”

  “And I love you both, no matter what.”

  “Well, it would be nice to come out and talk to you when you’re happy too.”

  She had always been a wise child.

  Peter looked at Diana, the woman he had instantly fallen in love with years ago, in his second year at the university. On the first day of the term, she sat next to him in Dr. Livingston’s parliamentary government class. He was reading the international edition of The Guardian when a gentle voice asked him if a subscription was required. When he turned his head to answer, he was confronted by a pair of confident deep-green eyes, and he knew immediately that she was the one. All he could do was stammer an affirmative, clumsily adding that if she wanted, they could share his copy.

  With that memory, he looked across the room. Diana gazed back at him with the green eyes that, from the first time they met, had turned all his darkness into light. He felt Liza watching them both.

  Peter knew he was seeing and feeling what his heart wanted. He laid his head against the back of the chair and wept himself to sleep.

  * * *

  Elaine twisted the valve as far as it would go and levered it fully open. Hot water was what she needed, and lots of it, as she did many nights during an investigation. She tilted her head back and let it filter through her hair, trickle down her spine, cascade over her breasts, flow over her belly, and, with a gurgle, disappear down the drain. She hoped that each rivulet that wound its way over her torso somehow neutralized a sin she had come in contact with that day. Perhaps in doing so, it would wash away the one she carried with her.

  Elaine was unsure if it worked, however long she rinsed. This was because the next morning she would rise, wash away the sleep, and begin her daily process of gathering to herself the knowledge of murder, in order to eliminate the evil.

  Sometimes the task seemed as futile as her nightly shower, but she had to do it. In a back corner of her psyche, Elaine was still seven years old, still curled on the sitting room floor, bewildered and frozen with fright. And Moira was still in the bedroom, screaming her last breaths through the thin wall of the council flat.

  THIRTEEN

  Elaine finished tapping in her report and clicked Submit to file the update into the case history. The good news was that a mounting trail of evidence increasingly validated her decision to release Willend. The bad news was that it wasn’t pointing to anyone else in particular. For all his good qualities, Benford had succumbed to an obsession with the first suspect in the case, and it had cost him dearly. It was one thing to speculate ahead of the facts but quite another to ignore what the evidence was saying. She didn’t know it for a fact, but she suspected that he and Cranwell had been under pressure from higher up to get a good result quickly. Someone up there was looking for a knighthood or an OBE. Nothing new about that.

  She turned her chair and gazed at the situation board through the window of the office. Let’s get back to the basics: means, opportunity, motive. Fill in the gaps.

  They could track Sheila’s movements until she got off the bus and disappeared into the night to meet her murderer. The last fix they had on her mobile was near the bus stop, but it had apparently been turned off shortly afterward. Where had she met him? There was no evidence that she had ever actually met Danny that night. He had not picked her up near Leah’s house or the bus stop. Why not? Because he had a place they could meet, where she could have a drink or three. And having her come to him reduced the chances that they would be seen together. But that didn’t mean that someone hadn’t seen her entering a house. Maybe she had passed Mrs. Connolly on the pavement. She wrote an action to do a house-to-house in the blocks around the Khoury’s
store and e-mailed it to Paula.

  Sheila was either assaulted at that house or taken to the industrial park and assaulted there. That was a distance of about twelve kilometers. So that was the next gap. The warrant had come through the day before, and Simon had been there with SOCO. What they found might determine if the derelict warehouse was the site of the assault or not. She would wait and see.

  The big gaps in opportunity still pointed at Danny. Who was he? Was he really a footballer? That was a standard pickup lie. If every young stud in London were the footballer he claimed to be, the entire city would be awash with flying soccer balls. How did he live his life, get his money, seduce his women? The meager description they had would fit any number of young London hipsters. The hipster population tended to circulate in fairly regular patterns among the latest hot clubs. Close questioning of bartenders and bouncers at the clubs might turn something up. So they had to ask the questions about Audi-driving footballers and club-hopping hipsters at every football stadium and dance club in East London. It was a daunting, expensive task with little hope of success. Elaine doubted that Sheila had ever made it to a club that night.

  Now what about motive? It was the slipperiest of the three. Not all people were motivated to violence in the same way. Money, sex, revenge, love (or for gangs, group acceptance), and power, singly or in some combination, were the motivators for most violent crimes. Almost anything could be a motive for murder, and a grievance that would motivate one person to murder would prompt another to deliver a slap across the chops and a third person to utter only a heartfelt “Fuck you.” Gang beatings typically carried a blatant message—what was the point if no one knew why it had happened? There was no gang affiliation in Sheila’s profile.

  She pressed her fingers into her temples. Kumar had said that Sheila wasn’t dead until after her body was dumped. She had so many drugs in her system and had sustained such a beating that it was likely that, had she not died, she would have been comatose for some time and would not remember much if she had ever awakened. She possibly would not have even registered that she was in torment. Now that was a thought. Sadists get satisfaction by registering the discomfort or pain they cause their victims. Would a sadist enjoy destroying a comatose victim? She needed to check with the police shrink. Had the killer done it before? What if the slashed face was a signature? One occurrence does not a signature make, but it surely looked like one.