by Neil White
I was taken into an interview room, really just a spare room near the custody desk, near enough for the sergeant to hear a lawyer scream if a prisoner turned nasty. I was left on my own for a few minutes before Sam was led in.
I was shocked by his appearance. His face was covered in stubble, and his eyes were red and puffy.
He waited for the door to swing slowly shut before he said anything.
‘You’ve impressed them,’ he said, as he undid his briefcase and set a pad down on the table. He must have sensed my confusion, because he nodded towards the door and said, ‘We’re not in the bubble further along. They must trust you.’
I started to smile.
‘So c’mon, let’s get on with this and then I can go home.’ He held out his hands. ‘What the hell were you doing in Eric Randle’s house?’
When I didn’t answer straightaway, he added, ‘They’ve told me how they found you.’
I looked at Sam, and it struck me how he hadn’t said anything about Eric’s death.
‘Why did you come?’ I asked.
‘Because you asked, Mr Garrett. It’s what lawyers do.’
‘Or maybe you don’t believe Eric killed himself.’
Sam dropped his head back and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired all of a sudden, a stranger from his usual persona of assured courtroom advocate. Then he composed himself again, took a deep breath.
‘Why should I care about Eric Randle?’
I shrugged. ‘Because you cared enough to send Mary Randle on to me?’
He looked at me, grim-faced. Then he leaned towards me. ‘I didn’t know Eric Randle until a couple of days ago, and I was quite happy with that. Now I want to go back to that state of bliss.’
I smiled at Sam, trying to gauge his thoughts. I sensed a real tiredness, but also fear, as if something was happening that he couldn’t understand. Maybe there was something else to this, something more than Eric’s death.
‘Why did he scare you?’ I asked, watching Sam’s eyes, checking his reaction. ‘He was just a harmless old man.’
‘You’re the one with questions to answer, not me,’ he said, but I could sense wariness in his voice.
‘Did you believe him?’
Sam sat there and watched me, and I saw him swallow, his mouth dry.
‘Eric didn’t kill himself,’ I continued. ‘He wasn’t tall enough. He couldn’t have reached the noose from that chair. Now, you’re a lawyer, which means you’re clever, which means you know that if Eric didn’t kill himself, then someone else did.’
Sam didn’t say anything.
‘Any ideas?’ I asked, my eyes wide.
Sam looked down for a second and said, ‘I’ve seen killers go free before. If another one goes free, it’s just one more in a long line. Is there a reason why I should worry?’
I cocked my head, trying to guess why he looked nervous, despite his bravado; why sweat was making his hair damp in the coolness of the interview room.
‘Because this involves you, but you don’t know how yet,’ I answered.
Sam stood up to go, but then stopped. He stared at the door for a few moments, as if he was willing himself to walk through it. But I could tell that he couldn’t.
‘Sit down, Sam,’ I said softly.
He didn’t move at first, but then I saw exhaustion take him over and he slumped back into his seat.
I stood up and leaned against the wall. I watched Sam as he decided what to say. It was time to back off.
I nodded towards the door. ‘If you can get me out of here, we could talk some more. I’m starting to build up a good story.’
‘But the police will find out whether Randle killed himself or not. These things are pretty hard to fake.’
I grinned. ‘The first two on the scene panicked and thought they could save him. They cut him down before the crime scenes got there. So I’ve got the suicide photo and the re-enactment photo. The police haven’t got either yet.’
‘You should disclose them.’
‘And so should you, but this conversation is confidential, right? You’re here as my lawyer, so you can’t tell the police anything unless I agree.’
Sam’s lip twitched, just a little, but I saw the reality of it all sink in.
‘I can breach that to save life and limb,’ he said, but his tone was unconvincing.
‘Whose? Eric has gone. Who’s next, Sam? Who’s next for Luke King?’
He blinked.
I nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s the one person linking all of this, isn’t he? He was arrested for the murder of Jess Goldie, Eric’s friend. Then Eric dies. And what about Terry McKay? He wasn’t the biggest fan of your boy, and the last I heard he’s wound up pretty badly injured.’ I saw Sam blink again. And the missing child was found with Eric, so I guess that there’s a link, that whoever killed Eric killed that boy.’ I watched Sam, but he just looked at the floor. Am I right?’
Sam shook his head but he didn’t answer.
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ I said.
Sam looked up at me. ‘What do you want me to say?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing really. I just want you to tell me that I should carry on digging, find out what I can before another child dies.’
Sam looked down again and shook his head. ‘I can’t do that and I wont do that.’
‘Professional conscience?’ I laughed. ‘Something of an oxymoron with lawyers, don’t you think?’
‘And you reporters are a step above?’
I shook my head. ‘Maybe not, but I don’t pretend any differently.’
I started to pace. Sam tracked me as I went, his eyes wide open, confused. ‘How will it play if I uncover Luke King as a murderer and it comes out that you could have stopped it? Do you think all the young mothers of Blackley will love you for that?’
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘No, it isn’t, because I’m going to write this up anyway. It’s your quote I’m looking for.’
Sam sat there for a while, and then he stood up quickly and picked up his briefcase.
‘Get a different lawyer,’ he said, and then banged on the door.
He stayed looking at the door until I heard it unlocked from outside. He didn’t turn back to look at me as he disappeared from view.
I had what I wanted: confirmation that something big was going on. I’ve met a few lawyers in my time, and one thing they don’t do is storm out on clients. It seemed like I was going to have to advise myself this time around.
* * *
He stood in the shadows, his collar up. He was cold, his hands aching.
Healing hands. He looked down at them. They were shaking. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.
But he knew what had gone wrong. He had guessed the age wrong. A simple mistake. Too simple. He should have been more attentive. He had got too confident.
He could make amends, he knew that. There were others he could help.
He was looking out for the next one. And he knew just who it was going to be. He had been watching, listening, trying to work out who was getting closest, who might stop him.
He looked towards the house. He was out now, leaving her on her own. Like always. He could take the child and she would never know. He would be more careful with the sedative, and then maybe she would be there for her son more.
He turned away from the house and went back to his car. He would have to sleep in the car tonight, but tomorrow he would be gone.
Chapter Forty-six
I opened my eyes slowly when I heard a noise. The room took a while to come into focus, and it took even longer for me to realise that I was in my own bedroom. I looked to the space next to me, and I saw Laura looking at me, her hair lying over her face.
‘Good morning,’ I mumbled sleepily. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
Laura didn’t reply at first. She looked at me intently instead, trying to gauge my thoughts. Then she asked, ‘Where did you go last night?’
�
��Last night?’ I asked innocently, but when I saw the look of mistrust I knew I had to be truthful. ‘I was researching Eric Randle.’
Laura sat up and raised her knees, wrapping her arms around them. I put my hand on her back and traced her spine with my finger.
‘I shouldn’t have to deal with this,’ she said. She turned towards me. ‘Geoff is coming for Bobby today, and you go out all night, leaving me on my own. I couldn’t sleep properly.’
I went to hold her but she pushed me away.
‘No,’ she said, her voice thick from tiredness. ‘That won’t do it.’
‘What will?’
She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. ‘I don’t know. I’m too knackered to think.’ She rummaged through the drawers before she turned back round to me, clothes in her hand. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I told you, researching Eric Randle.’
‘Where?’ She was raising her voice.
I thought about how to put this. I knew silence wasn’t an option, and a lie wouldn’t do much good, but I was concerned that the truth wouldn’t help me too much either.
‘I went to his house,’ I said quietly, and waited for the barrage.
‘You went to his house? A crime scene?’ She was aghast. ‘You could get yourself arrested.’
I looked up at her and grimaced.
‘You got arrested?’ She shook her head, pacing on the spot. Then she threw her clothes onto the bed. ‘You got arrested?’ she repeated. ‘Fucking hell.’ Then she looked at me, anger replaced by disbelief. ‘What did you do?’
I chewed my lip nervously. ‘When I found Eric yesterday, something about the scene bothered me. It stayed with me all day, and when I looked at the photographs again last night, I saw it.’
‘What photographs?’ Laura’s voice was stern, her arms folded over her breasts.
‘The ones I took before I called the police.’
When she raised an eyebrow, I said, ‘I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.’
‘Show me.’ It was a command, not a request.
I reached for the camera from my trouser pocket, my clothes still lying crumpled on the bedroom floor. I had told the police I was just re-creating the scene for the story, so they had given the camera back to me and told me to stay away. I scrolled through until I found the pictures from the day before. Laura looked impassive as she examined the screen, using the zoom button to search around the room, to look at Eric hanging from the ceiling.
‘What’s the problem?’
I took the camera back and found the picture I had taken of me on the chair.
‘I made a noose of the same length,’ I said, ‘and the chair is the same, but look.’ I pointed at the screen. ‘I’m much taller than Eric. I could not have got my head into that noose by standing on that chair.’
‘You mean someone helped him?’ she asked, still looking at the picture of me with a noose above my head. She shuddered.
‘I mean that maybe he was already dead when he was strung up there. When I looked at the picture again last night, I realised that it could have been staged, and so I went back to check.’
‘And you were arrested.’
I nodded.
‘What did the cops say last night when you told them?’
‘I didn’t. I’m saving it for my story.’
‘So why are you telling me? I’m going to have to say something.’
I looked down at her body. ‘You being naked made me sort of reckless.’
She smiled a little at that. ‘I’ve got to get to work now,’ she said, her voice keen.
‘You can’t take my camera,’ I complained.
‘Will you print these off for me?’ she asked.
I was about to complain, when she started to leave the room, my camera in her hand.
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it.’
She turned around and tossed the camera onto the bed. ‘I can hear Bobby. I’m going to spend some time with him before I go.’
And then she was gone.
Sam woke up with a jolt. He was falling. The same dream, but stronger this time. He felt a sense of dread, worse than before. He looked down. His shirt was drenched with sweat, his face slick, his fingers tightly pressing into his leg.
He looked around. He was in his office. He had slept in his chair. He checked his watch. He could hear people moving around, talking. He caught his reflection in his window. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and he was in the same shirt he had worn the day before. It was creased and dirty.
He leaned forward and put his face in his hands. Just for a moment, it felt good. It was dark, and so he couldn’t see anything, could feel only his own breath, hot and scared. But when he pulled his hands away, the daylight came as a stark reminder that he had another day to get through.
He wasn’t sure he could do it.
Then he thought of Terry McKay. How must he be feeling, his hand ruined, dumped like rubbish at the back of the office?
Then it struck him. Behind the office. The car park. The security light. There was something he could do.
He looked at his reflection in the window again, tried to smooth down his shirt, checked that he didn’t look too tired. He felt a glow, empowerment. Time to make things right.
He stood against a wall, the stone grey and jagged, and watched through the window of the house. He checked his pockets, felt his hand wrap around the cloth, soaked through with diethyl ether. He had used it so many times with children but they were usually older. He would have to be more careful.
He checked his watch. He had watched it crawl through the night, time slowed down, his car cold, just a blanket to keep him warm. His skin felt dirty, his hands clammy as he ran them over his stubble.
He looked down at his hands, turned them over, saw how the sunlight seemed to make them shine, reflected back off the strong fingers. Then he noticed the teeth marks, bright red gashes across his knuckles, raw and vivid. He clenched his fist, felt the anger burn through him.
He blew into his hand and unclenched his fist, took a deep breath and shook his arms loose. He checked his watch again. He was ready to go.
I came out of the shower and went to the top of the stairs. Bobby had been on his own for ten minutes.
‘You okay, Bobby?’
As I listened, I could hear the television playing. Kids’ TV. The sound of a glockenspiel floated up towards me.
‘We’ll be going soon,’ I shouted. ‘Can you find your shoes?’
Still nothing. The power of television, I thought. I’d once tried to tell him that when I was his age there were only three channels. He’d giggled.
I rummaged through my drawers to find some clothes. I wondered what it would feel like if he wasn’t there. Would the house seem too quiet?
I couldn’t hear any movement downstairs. I checked my watch. He had to be ready to leave for school soon. ‘How are you doing?’ I shouted as I got dressed. ‘You’re seeing your daddy today, so you need to look your best.’
There was still no reply. Maybe it was time to turn the television off more, I thought. What was wrong with the radio, or toys?
As I pulled on my shoes, I went to the top of the stairs. ‘Bobby, have you got your shoes on? I’m getting mine on, and I bet you can’t beat me.’
I started to walk down the stairs, making theatrical thumps to make the shoe game fun.
‘I’m on my way,’ I said, but still no answer. That television would have to go off.
‘Bobby?’
Still no response.
I started to get concerned. He should have answered by now.
Two more steps, heavy thumps of my feet.
‘Bobby! Can you hear me?’
Now I knew something wasn’t right.
I ran down the rest of the stairs and rushed into the living room. I looked around, at the unpacked boxes, the toys on the floor, the television blaring in the corner. He wasn’t there.
I turned quickly, tried to see if he was h
iding. I started to feel sick. I looked behind the sofa.
‘Bobby! This isn’t funny. Come out.’ I snapped out the words and then ran into the kitchen. Still no sign. I flung open the door to a cupboard. The ironing board fell out. I ran back to the foot of the stairs and shouted, ‘Bobby!’
