by Deborah Finn
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, she probably knew all kinds of crazy people. She was probably into all kinds of stuff. Drugs, things like that.”
Beth nodded. “I guess that’s true. But do you think that’s what it was? A drugs thing?”
“Well, it makes more sense, doesn’t it? She got on the wrong side of some drugged up junkie?”
Beth blew out a long breath. “It could be.”
Martin nodded. Beth fiddled with her fingers. “So we don’t go to the police?” she said. “Tell them who she is?”
“The police? Christ, Beth, what would we say?”
Her eyes flicked sideways as she thought it through. “Yeah, what would we say?”
“If they found out about Ben...” Martin let the thought tail off.
Beth swiftly shook her head. “No, you’re right. We can’t go to the police.”
The TV showed pictures of Gallagher and protestors carrying placards. Martin reached for the remote and shut it off. He looked across at Beth. “He’s not Ben’s dad,” he said in a low and determined voice. “We’re his parents. We’re here to protect him. We just sit tight and this whole nightmare will go away now.”
Beth looked at him, but she said nothing and made no gesture. She looked at him like she no longer knew whether to believe a word he said.
Twenty One
Lester Gallagher leaned back onto the leather bench in the Italian restaurant. He pushed away his coffee. He winced as he pressed on his stomach.
“This stuff is gut-rot.”
McLean smiled and knocked back the last of his espresso. “Can’t take the hard stuff.”
Gallagher signalled to the waitress to bring the cheque. McLean made no effort to reach for his wallet. It was understood that Gallagher paid, for this as well as other things. In return, Assistant Chief Constable McLean serviced his friend with information on a strictly need to know basis.
“Oh, there’s one other thing,” McLean said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Gallagher was already looking at his mobile, thinking about the rest of the afternoon.
“You probably heard, a body was found down at Depton cutting, a woman.”
Gallagher continued to stare at his phone. He could feel the coffee surging through his gut, feel the tingling of sweat on his skin. “Yeah, what of it?”
“Just that they’ve traced her back to the Sheraton.”
Gallagher looked up, forced his eyes to fix steadily on McLean. “So what’s that to do with me?”
“It was that night, the night of the awards. You were there, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, me and a thousand others.”
“Oh, I know.” McLean laughed. “I’m just giving you the heads up, that’s all. We put out an artist’s sketch and someone on the hotel desk recognised her by the hair. She’s got long red hair, it seems. Quite distinctive. And so we went through the CCTV.”
Sweat was trickling down his spine now. Gallagher wiped his forehead. “Fuck, it’s hot in here.” He put his phone away. “CCTV, yeah? You get anything?”
“Not much. We haven’t got an ID yet. She was captured in the lobby on the way in, and then in the lift going up to the seventh floor.”
“Seventh?”
“Yeah, and that’s it. No sign of her coming out of the hotel.”
“Oh well, I was on the fifth.”
McLean laughed more heartily this time. “I know. I’ve seen the list of names. Jesus, you’re as jumpy as a rabbit.”
Gallagher forced himself to laugh. “Must be the coffee.”
McLean started gathering up his things. “I’m sure they’ll be in touch with you at some point. They’re starting with everyone on the seventh floor, and that’s probably where it’ll end. But just as well for you to know.”
“Yeah,” Gallagher agreed. “I appreciate it, Kevin. Thanks.”
He took the card payment machine from the waitress as McLean slid out from behind the table.
“You’ll be at the dinner on Friday?” McLean asked.
“Friday?”Gallagher asked, with a slight shake of his head. “Oh yeah, I think so. Everything’s a bit of a whirl,” he added.
McLean clapped him on the back. “See you then.”
Gallagher watched him walk out into the sunshine. Fucking hell. That fucking Jango, he was dead.
Back at Havelock Mill, Gallagher walked towards his corner office. He looked at no one, but felt them shrink from his path as he passed. He held up the palm of his hand towards Becca.
“No one!” he said, as he walked into his office and slammed the glass door. He pulled down the blind and went to the leather chair behind the desk. He swung it round to the window and stared unseeingly at the city skyline.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered.
He turned back to the desk and kicked the leg of it hard enough to rattle everything on the desktop.
“FUCK!” he shouted.
He felt the pain in his jaw and yanked open the desk drawer. He pulled out a plastic medicine bottle and shook tablets into his hand. He threw them back and pulled a face. He pulled out a bottle of vodka and took a swig from the bottle before capping it and putting it back in the drawer. He saw the photographs there and pulled them out. He spread them swiftly, left to right, like a pack of cards.
There she was, the stupid bitch. Stupid fucking bitch causing him hell even dead. And what about this bastard, Martin Halton? What was he to do with it? Gallagher picked out the photos of them arguing. That one... he looked like he had his hand on her neck, looked like he was going to throttle her. Stupid bitch had the same effect on him too.
He snatched up his phone and flicked through the call log. He pressed the call button. It rang three times. It was answered with a terse greeting. Lester leaned back in his chair, letting his body relax, letting it sound in his voice.
“Hi Martin, Lester Gallagher here.”
He heard the silence before Martin found some words.
“Lester. Hi. How’s it going?”
“It’s all good, Martin, all good. How’s things with you? You going to manage to make it to the rally?”
“Oh well...” Martin said. Gallagher could hear the scratchiness in his voice as he tried to weasel out of it. “Might be a bit tricky that day. Bit of a family thing on, you know.”
“Oh, bring the kids, Martin. Family atmosphere’s what we’re looking for.”
“Well, I’ll see.”
“Do what you can, Martin. It’d be good to see you. I’d like to pick your brains on a few things.”
“Really?” Martin said. “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Better to have a chat in person.”
“Right,” Martin said. “I don’t know.”
“Oh come on, Martin. You can catch up with some of your old mates from the project team. You remember them?”
“Of course.”
“Some of those ladies certainly remember you, Martin,” he laughed. “You still keep in touch with anyone from the old days?”
Even down the line, Gallagher could feel the tension at the other end, the momentary silence.
“Not really,” Martin said. “I see Lachlan now and then for a bike ride, but that’s it.”
Gallagher looked at the photos in front of him. Lying bastard. What’s your game? “Lachlan? Right,” he said. He shuffled the photos back together, but kept back the one where he looked like he was throttling her. “Never see any of the girls?” Gallagher laughed, a deep, insinuating sound. “You did used to like the girls.”
“Not anymore,” Martin came back swiftly. “That’s all over. Things are different now.”
Gallagher laughed again. “Are they? OK. Whatever you say. Well, think on about the rally. I’d really like to see you there. There’s a lot we could talk about, you and I.”
He listened to the faltering excuses then made his goodbyes and ended the call. He spread the photo out flat on the desk. From the top drawer, he pull
ed out a small cloth, meant for cleaning his computer screen. He started wiping the photo down. He pressed the intercom button to Becca.
“Bring me in a packet of envelopes. Fresh. In the cellophane, right? Not opened.”
“Not opened?”
“You deaf, Becca?” he said, his voice quiet. He was in control again.
Who would he send it to? Not Kevin. That might be too obvious. Maybe not even to a name, just the murder investigation team. That’d do.
He smiled down at the photo and laughed softly. Martin Halton. You want to fucking cross me? That’s a fucking bad idea.
He picked up the photos to put them back in the drawer but missed a couple at the bottom of the stack. He went to pick them up and then stopped and looked. There was a kid in this photo. This was earlier on in the sequence, before he’d got to the interesting shots of them fighting. He’d skipped over these pictures, not even noticed the kid. The kid was standing by Halton and rummaging in his backpack, obviously his kid, or so he’d thought. But look at him! In the next shot, the kid was looking up, happened to be looking in the direction of the camera and he was caught full face. The mouth, the nose, something about the shape of his face... and look at the hair! That kid couldn’t belong to anyone but Marilyn. This was the child! Fucking hell! But why was he with Halton? What the fuck was going on? Gallagher reached for his phone. That toerag Jango could do one more job before he fucking killed him.
Twenty Two
“Oh for God’s sake Ben, can you not pick this stuff up when you’re done with it?” Martin frowned at the muddle of plastic circuitry on the floor. Ben had obviously given up on the project and was now on the sofa with the laptop. “This place isn’t big enough for you to spread out all your mess. I’ve told you before. It’s not like the old house. You’ve got to be tidy.”
“I was waiting,” Ben said quietly.
“Waiting?” Martin asked in a tone of scornful disbelief.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ben said. There was a sullen edge to his voice as he looked away and back to the computer screen.
“Look at me!” Martin insisted.
Ben looked up at him and Martin could see something else in his eyes, something behind the sullenness. But still the irritation gripped him. He tried to soften his voice. “What were you waiting for?”
“I was waiting for you,” Ben muttered.
Martin nodded. He’d been tied up with some urgent planning documents and had taken himself off to the tiny bedroom in the flat so he could concentrate. He felt guilt seeping through him, fighting with the anxiety of everything that was going wrong. “I’m sorry, Ben. You know I had to do that stuff. It was important, but it’s finished now.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ben said, as if his dad was missing the point. “I just needed you for this bit.” He pushed the laptop aside and got down on the floor. “When it gets to here, it’s supposed to break the circuit and make the ball drop down. But it’s not working.” He looked up at Martin, and his face was no longer that of a sullen child, just a little boy who thought his dad could fix things.
Martin felt something like pain in his chest, but he smiled and kneeled down.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get angry. It’s just...”
“I know,” Ben said quickly. Martin knew he didn’t like to talk about any of it. “Here’s the diagram. I did it like it said, Dad.”
“OK. Let me have a look.” He checked everything. “Yeah, why’s that not working?”
They puzzled together for ten minutes or so, making no progress. Ben sat back, fiddling with a magnet. “Can I put the TV on, Dad? It’s nearly time for Doctor Who.”
“Alright,” Martin said distractedly. “I really can’t figure this out.”
“Where’s the remote?” Ben said, looking around and lifting cushions on the sofa.
“I don’t know,” Martin said. “Just do it from the TV.”
Ben pressed the power button, and carried on searching for the remote. The local news was on. “This is the wrong side,” Ben said. “I need the remote.”
Martin ignored him.
“Dad!” he whined. “I need the remote.”
“What?” Martin snapped at last, looking up. Just as he did, a grainy image of Marilyn filled the TV screen. Martin’s heart thumped massively, forcing a breath out of his chest. The image jumped. It was CCTV. She was walking across some open space, like a shopping centre. No, it was a hotel lobby.
“There it is,” Ben said, grabbing the remote and changing the channel.
“Turn it back!” Martin shouted.
Ben did so instantly, staring at his dad.
“Sorry,” Martin muttered, not taking his eyes from the screen. The image jumped again; her face was much closer up this time. She was waiting. There were lifts in the background. A surge of panic suddenly flared inside him and he was on his feet, getting between his son and the screen. “Ben,” he said. Ben wasn’t watching. Thank god, he wasn’t looking at this. “I forgot,” Martin said. “I thought we’d go out. Get a burger, go to the pictures.”
“Yeah?” Ben asked.
“Yeah,” Martin nodded vigorously.
Ben swivelled his eyes comically. “Alright.”
“OK. But you better get dressed properly.”
“I am dressed.”
“That’s your pyjamas t shirt, Ben. I’m not daft.”
“No?” Ben smiled.
Martin gave him a comic cuff round the ear, as Ben backed off to go to his bedroom to get changed. Martin instantly turned to the TV. A hotline number was flashing up, and then the image was gone, and they were onto the next news item. Martin pulled his phone from his pocket and launched the browser. He typed in “Manchester hotel murder woman CCTV”. Immediately a news link came up and he clicked on it and scanned the content. She was in the Sheraton the night she was killed. She was seen entering the hotel, but not leaving. Police appeal for help in identifying the woman. He clicked the link for the CCTV video and she appeared.
It felt surreal, watching her like this. God, he’d hardly have recognised her in that dress. In her shabby tracksuit, she’d looked like some scrawny drug addict. Now, all her bony angles looked like catwalk style. It got to the close up at the lifts and he pressed the stop button, freezing the video. Her eyes were looking at the camera, and he could see the fear.
Martin sat down heavily on the sofa. She’d died in the Sheraton. It wasn’t some drug deal gone wrong, it wasn’t some random argument with a drunk on the street. She’d died in an evening dress in a respectable hotel.
Could she have been working as an escort? He flinched at the euphemism in his own mind. Prostitute was what he meant. Some coked up businessman getting a bit too rough?
Could it be that? Or was he just avoiding what he didn’t want to think about. She’d said she was going to see Gallagher. She said Gallagher was Ben’s dad.
Ben came bounding into the room, landing with a thump.
“Don’t do that,” Martin said, automatically and with no force. “The neighbours downstairs.”
“What are we going to see?” Ben asked.
Martin looked at Ben. He felt as if his son was miles away, in some innocent land that he was never going to be able to get back to. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Martin stepped outside the glass door of the multiplex. He was watching Ben as he ordered ice cream. Beth answered on the second ring.
“Is everything alright?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Martin said automatically. “No. I mean, Ben’s alright. We’re at the cinema.”
“You’ve seen the news?” she asked.
“Yes,” Martin said. “She was in the Sheraton. All dressed up. It makes no sense.”
“No,” she said. “I mean the father. You’ve not seen her father on the news?”
“What? Marilyn’s father? No. I haven’t seen that. What’s he saying?”
He heard her draw in a breath. “Martin, he hadn’t seen her for ten
years.” She paused, letting the significance sink in.
“Ten years,” he echoed. “You mean, since she was pregnant?”
“He says she just disappeared. Said she’d had some troubles and she’d left her job, but he didn’t say anything about her being attacked or raped.”
“And he never saw her again?”
“No. He reported her missing. Even got a private detective.”
“But she was just here in the city,” Martin said
“I guess she didn’t want to be found,” Beth said.
“I guess not.”
“And Martin, he’s offering a reward.”
“To find the killer?” Martin asked.
She didn’t reply.
“Beth, what is it?”
“Martin, he wants to know what happened to his grandchild.”
“His...” Martin felt the blow, deep inside, like an explosion in his gut. As if in slow motion, he turned as Ben shouldered his way through the door, carrying his ice cream.
“Dad,” he said. “It’s starting.”
Martin looked at him, hardly able to understand: you have a grandfather.
Twenty Three
“Oh my God!”
Farren was in the back seat of the parked car with Holly, the dog. He leaned forward to Jango in the driver’s seat and held out his iPhone. There was CCTV footage running on the screen. The image was grainy and the angle did not capture any clear face shots, but to Farren it was clear as day. “It’s on the fucking news! Jesus! Anyone’d know that was me. The trainers, me hat. Shit, man! What are we gonna do?”
Jango stared at the footage. “Do you think Steve’ll recognise his box?” he asked. His low, slow voice was all that Farren needed. He kicked the back of the seat.
“Fuck Steve!” he shouted. “Oh my god, he wouldn’t turn you in?”
Jango shook his head but without much conviction.
“Jesus, Jango, your mate better be sound.”
“There’s no logos on it, is there? I mean, no one can track it back to him. So long as the bizzies don’t go to him, then we’re alright.”
