Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  Gallagher wanted him to stay quiet. Was that what he should do? Everything inside him rebelled against the idea, but maybe it was the best course of action. Maybe this was just a threat, a shot across the bows, just a symbol to show him what he could do.

  It all came back to Marilyn. That was the only link. This had all started with Marilyn. Somehow Gallagher knew that he’d been talking to Marilyn. And he knew about Ben. Marilyn must have told him that Ben was his child. Wouldn’t that protect Ben? A father wouldn’t hurt his own child. But then they did, all the time, without reason. And Gallagher had reason. If he really had fathered Ben, then not only did Ben connect the dots on Marilyn’s rape allegation, he would also give a whole new slant to the murder investigation team.

  It was obvious, he must have killed Marilyn. So what was to stop him killing Beth and Ben? Nothing. Only that Martin knew. Would Gallagher risk that? Would he risk Martin going public with what he knew? But Martin couldn’t prove any of it. He couldn’t do anything on his own. He needed help. He had to go to the police.

  With a strangely cool certainty, as if all the pieces had just fallen into place, he knew that was what he had to do. Gallagher had already killed Marilyn. That was enough. He couldn’t take the risk. He had to go to the police. But how could he explain it all? Could he say anything without saying how they’d got Ben? He still had to try and avoid that. If he possibly could, he had to avoid it.

  Martin was moving on autopilot now, out to his car, and off into the city traffic. What am I going to say. His mind hit a blank, but he kept on driving, his hand moving on the gears, his eyes processing traffic lights and pedestrians, but somehow his mind was empty.

  He pulled into the city centre car park and collected his token. The police station was just minutes away. He’d been in a police station once before. He’d found a handbag left in a park once, when he was a student. He’d taken it to the police station. That station had looked nothing like this. This looked like some kind of high security hotel desk. He walked up to a woman in civilian clothing behind a glass screen.

  “I want to report...” He faltered before finding the words. “My wife and child are missing.”

  The woman glanced at him, his words barely seeming to register with him.

  “OK. Go to section 1, down there. Take a ticket from the machine. When they call your number, you go up to the desk.”

  Martin looked down the room towards the area she indicated. This was it? You report your wife and child missing, and they tell you to wait in line?

  “I don’t think you understand...” he began.

  “Really, sir,” she interrupted. “The quickest thing is if you just take a ticket.”

  Martin nodded. He wasn’t going to get anywhere here. He went down the room and took the ticket. After five minutes, they called 44. He walked up to the desk and took the seat. There was still a glass screen between him and the young male officer. He had to speak into a microphone.

  “I want to report my wife and child missing,” he said.

  The officer nodded. “OK, sir. When did they go missing.”

  “This afternoon.”

  The officer looked up and raised an eyebrow. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s only seven o’clock now, sir. Why do you think they’re missing?”

  “They’ve been snatched. I know who’s got them.”

  The officer frowned. “You do?”

  “Martin leaned forward, trying to speak quietly into the microphone. “It’s Lester Gallagher. Look, isn’t there somewhere I can talk more privately?”

  “Gallagher?” The officer looked sceptical. “The guy who’s standing for election?”

  Martin nodded. “Look, I know it sounds weird, but... isn’t there someone I can talk to? I was there today with Gallagher when the police came to talk to him. I think his name was McIntyre. Please. My son is only ten years old.”

  The officer stared at Martin for a few moments. “DI McIntyre?” He looked down at his notepad. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Halton, Martin Halton.”

  “And you say you know Lester Gallagher?”

  “I don’t know him, exactly. I used to work for him.” Martin looked imploringly at the officer. “I know it’s him. I know he’s got them.”

  The officer frowned and then stood up. “OK, just wait a minute over there and someone will be out to get you.”

  Martin nodded his thanks and went back to his seat. He watched the clock. The officer came back to his counter and started to deal with the next person. The minutes ticked by. Martin felt his anxiety ratcheting up. Why were they not taking him seriously?

  A door buzzed open to his side and a woman appeared. He remembered her. She was the sergeant who’d been there with McIntyre. He couldn’t remember her name.

  “Mr Halton?” she called. She waved him forward and he went through with her into a corridor.

  “You were there this afternoon, weren’t you?” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “DS Brownlowe,” she supplied. She walked heavily, her footsteps resounding along the corridor. They passed two doors and then she opened a door onto a small, bare room. “This’ll have to do,” she said. “I just need to get the basics from you.”

  Martin tried to cooperate, rapidly giving all the details of name and address, Ben’s name and date of birth, Beth’s details too. They went over the story of the afternoon, him coming home, the door open, no one at home.

  “Did you bring a photo?”

  Martin screwed up his eyes in frustration. “Shit. I didn’t think. I can get you one from the house. Hang on! I’ll have some on my phone. I could email them to you and you print them out?”

  “Yeah,” she said, as if there was no urgency.

  “They’ve been missing for three hours now,” Martin said. “Shouldn’t you be doing something already?”

  “If it was just your child that had gone missing, Mr Halton, then yes, we’d be straight on it.”

  “What? It’s better that he’s got Beth too?”

  “He? Oh, Mr Gallagher. You seem pretty confident, making accusations like that.”

  Martin looked down at the table and tried to speak calmly. “I know it’s him. I’ve spoken to him.”

  DS Brownlowe narrowed her eyes. “He admitted it?”

  “No, of course not,” Martin said. “He’s hardly going to say that, is he? He told me to keep my mouth shut, or something like that.”

  “He told you not to report it to the police.”

  Martin shook his head. “Not in so many words. He kept telling me to keep calm. Keep my head and everyone keeps their head. That’s a threat, isn’t it?”

  DS Brownlowe shrugged. “Telling you to keep calm? Seems like good advice.”

  Martin shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

  “No, Mr Halton, I’m not really getting it. Your wife and child have gone out somewhere...”

  “The door was open.”

  “Well, that happens you know. I’ve done it myself. Was there any sign of a struggle?”

  “No,” Martin admitted.

  “Nothing missing? Nothing disturbed?”

  “She left her phone behind.”

  DS Brownlowe pulled a sympathetic face. “So annoying when you do that.”

  Martin suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. “You’re not understanding,” he shouted.

  DS Brownlowe eyed him slowly. “You better sit down and calm down, Mr Halton.”

  Martin looked up at the ceiling briefly and took a few deep breaths. He had to calm down. He had to get them on his side.

  “You do seem very wound up, Mr Halton. And it’s funny that you’re so sure that something bad has happened to your wife and child.”

  “Funny?” Martin said scornfully.

  “Not funny ha ha,” she said. “Funny odd. Most people would just think they’d be home any minute. Get a bit annoyed maybe, but they’re not going to think the worst, not on a sunny day lik
e this. It’s not even dark yet. And yet you’re so sure that something bad has happened to them. Almost as if you knew.”

  Martin stared at her. “You think...” his throat dried up. He swallowed hard. “You think I’ve done something to them? You think it’s me?”

  She shrugged. “Right now, I’ve no good reason to think anything’s happened to them.”

  Martin held her stare. “I’ve told you, this is completely out of character. Beth wouldn’t just disappear like this. She wouldn’t take Ben away and not tell me what she was doing. Especially now.”

  “Why especially now, Mr Halton? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “It’s Gallagher,” he said. “It’s Gallagher you need to be speaking to.”

  “Oh, we’ll be speaking to him.”

  “He killed her. That woman.”

  DS Brownlowe was very still. Martin could feel her focusing all of her energy on him. “That woman?” she echoed.

  “Marilyn Souter.”

  DS Brownlowe stared hard at him. “That’s a murder investigation, Mr Halton. Do you know something about that?”

  Martin said nothing. His mind was whirring. What could he safely say?

  DS Brownlowe closed her notebook. “I’m going to end this conversation and bring in my boss, DI McIntyre. Just wait here a minute.”

  Martin watched her make her way cumbersomely through the gap between the desk and filing cabinet. She closed the door behind her. Martin’s heart was racing. Had he done the right thing, mentioning Marilyn? At least she was taking him seriously now. That had to be good.

  A couple of minutes later, the door opened again. A tall, fat lad with a red face opened the door. His white polyester shirt was stretched over his belly.

  “Come with me, sir,” he said.

  He lead Martin along the corridor and down a set of stairs into a gloomier corridor. Cameras were conspicuously located at every corner.

  “Where are we going?” Martin asked, just as the officer stopped and lifted a ring of keys that was hanging from his belt.

  Martin read the sign on the door. “Interrogation Room? Why are you putting me in here?”

  The fat officer opened the door into a gloomy room with gloss painted walls that looked like grease. He stood in the doorframe, holding the door wide for Martin to squeeze past his belly. He was chewing gum with bovine calm. “It’s just an interview room, Mr Halton. Just wait here. The Inspector will be along soon.”

  “More waiting? Don’t you...” Martin broke off, his chest tightening with frustration. He wanted to hit something. He clenched his hands, and saw the constable’s eyes lazily tracking his actions. Martin took a breath and tried again. “Don’t you get it? My wife and child are missing. They’ve been abducted. Why aren’t you doing something?”

  “We are doing something, sir. DI McIntyre is coming to take your statement. He’ll be along shortly.”

  Martin locked eyes with the fat officer. His bloated calm was infuriating, but getting angry with him was doing no good. He sighed and shouldered his way past him into the room. The door closed quietly.

  The room was grim. There was a steel framed window, high up, with opaque security glass. It seemed to dirty the light as it passed into the room. The heavy-duty carpeting had been worn to a hairy surface that stuck to Martin’s shoes as he crossed the room to a large noticeboard . It was mostly empty. A few aged appeals and photofits were pinned in random locations. And above it all, a clock ticked ponderously, ten minutes slow.

  Martin checked his own watch. It had been an hour and a half since he’d walked in the door of the police station, only to end up in this holding chamber. The room was so quiet. No noise got through these thick walls. There was just the steady tick of the clock and the sound of Martin’s feet pacing the floor. The minutes ticked by.

  Martin banged the side of his balled fist against the wall. It barely made a sound. You could do anything here, and the room would just swallow it up. You could die and no one would notice. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He started towards the door just as it opened.

  McIntyre came in. It seemed as if he didn’t even notice Martin. He walked to the table and chairs and sat down, placing a slim file upon the table. Only then did he turn to look at Martin.

  “Take a seat, Mr Halton.” His voice was calm as he gestured to the plastic chair on the other side of the table.

  “DI McIntyre? They’ve told you? My wife and child are missing.”

  “Yes. I’m going to take a full statement from you now, Mr Halton. Would you just take a seat?” He opened the file and paused to look up. “Martin, isn’t it?” he asked, with a cold smile. It was like small talk, but with malice. The grey light fell onto the formica table top as McIntyre took a photo from the file and placed it face down.

  “What’s that?”

  “Sit down, Mr Halton.” The man was unnaturally calm, as he gestured once more to the chair. Martin sat down and the inspector looked at his file again.

  “So, as I understand it, you got home from...” he traced along a few lines in the file. “Oh yes, you were at Mr Gallagher’s rally.” He looked up at Martin and removed his reading glasses for a moment.

  “Yes. I saw you there,” Martin said. “You must remember, it was just this afternoon.”

  The inspector nodded. “And when you got back your wife and child were not at home. Is that unusual?”

  “Yes. And the door was open. I’ve already said all this. Shouldn’t you be getting people out there looking for them?”

  “The door was open.” McIntyre repeated Martin’s words as he wrote them onto file paper.

  Martin let his head sink into his hands as he tried to summon patience. “The door was open, not wide open, but open.”

  “But no signs of a struggle?” McIntyre asked, in the same unflappable tone.

  “Yes,” Martin said, slamming both hands down onto the table. “I mean no. I mean, there was no sign of a struggle.”

  McIntyre smiled faintly then went back to his note making. “You used to work for Lester Gallagher, I believe?”

  “Yes, well, sort of.”

  “You sort of worked for him?”

  Martin sighed. “I’m an architect. I do work on contract. I didn’t exactly work for him. I was working on projects.”

  “For quite a few years?”

  “Yes, a few years. What does any of this matter?”

  “And this woman, she also worked for Lester Gallagher.” McIntyre turned over the photo and slid it across the table to Martin. It was a picture of Marilyn. Marilyn and Martin arguing in the park.

  Martin stared at it. His head felt strange, his body cold, as if a poison had been injected into his bloodstream, rapidly circulating towards his heart.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “It looks like an argument,” McIntyre answered. “Lover’s tiff perhaps?”

  “Lover’s tiff? What...?”

  Martin pushed his chair back and shook his head. He couldn’t think. They knew about Marilyn. What did they know? Did they know about Ben and Marilyn? No. They couldn’t know that.

  “You were having an affair with Marilyn Souter?”

  “I was not. Never. Not with Marilyn!”

  “Not with Marilyn. With someone else then?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, you didn’t Mr Halton.” McIntyre leaned forward onto the table. His body had tightened, his face hardened. “You said: not with Marilyn. You see, what I’m thinking is, if someone accused me of cheating on my wife, I’d say I’d never do that. I wouldn’t go with some slapper behind my wife’s back. But you, Mr Halton, what you said was: not with Marilyn. So that makes me think that you did have an affair with someone.” He leaned back, and adopted the friendly face again. “Someone at Gallagher Holdings? Or maybe not just someone. Maybe more than one?”

  “Jesus!” Martin stood up and paced to the wall and back. There was less light coming through the window, he realised. The lig
ht was starting to fade, they were losing the day, and he was stuck in here, in this purgatory, having his sins paraded before him.

  “What does that matter? Beth and Ben are missing. Don’t you understand? Her car is in the drive. Her house-keys are on the table.”

  “It’s strange isn’t it?”

  Martin ceased his pacing and looked at McIntyre. “I have been trying to tell you; it is fucking strange.”

  “No, I meant...” He leaned over and tapped Marilyn’s photo. “You have a row with Marilyn Souter, and a few days later she turns up as a corpse. And now your wife is missing. It’s strange, don’t you think, these things happening to the women around you?”

  Martin stared at him. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  McIntyre stared at him for a long time, the false smile now entirely absent. “Not yet, Mr Halton. Not yet.”

  Thirty

  Farren could feel Gallagher looking at him, trying to figure something out. They were standing in a dark, rubble-strewn space, the main hall on the ground floor of the warehouse.

  “What the fuck is that smell?” Gallagher said.

  “Yeah, it stinks,” Farren said. “Something’s dead in here.” It reminded him. “They’ve got no toilet in there. I’ve given them a bucket.”

  Gallagher laughed unpleasantly. “How thoughtful of you.”

  It was dark, but Farren could see the glint of a gold tooth in Gallagher’s wet mouth. “I’ve given them some water and food as well.”

  “Quite the Florence Nightingale,” Gallagher said. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your style.”

  “He’s a little kid,” Farren said. He coughed and spat on the floor. He hated this fucking wanker.

  “Where’s Jango anyway?” Gallagher said.

  “I told him I’d handle it.”

  “You told him?” Gallagher asked. “I thought he told you?”

  “Seems not,” said Farren.

  Gallagher narrowed his eyes at him. “So you’ve got the keys?”

  “Yeah,” said Farren. He turned towards the doorway to the stairs. “It’s dark down here and it gets wet. Watch your step.”