by Deborah Finn
“I’ve been here before,” said Gallagher.
Farren stopped on the stairs. He turned on the light on his phone and shone it in Gallagher’s eyes. “Have you? Why was that then?”
“Move that fucking light,” Gallagher said. “Shine it down there.”
Farren turned round and carried on to the bottom of the stairs. He moved along the corridor. The sound of the river was getting louder. He hated it.
“There’s rooms upstairs. We could take them up there. It’s damp down here.”
“I know,” Gallagher said. “The water level’s risen. This used to be a dry vault. The surveyor told me all about it.”
“Whatever,” said Farren. “It’s not dry now. They’d be better off upstairs.”
Gallagher grabbed Farren’s shoulder and span him round to press him up against the damp wall. “I don’t care where they’re better off,” he hissed into his face. “This is where I want them. And you do what I say. Have you got that?”
Farren inched his forehead closer until it was touching Gallagher’s. He lifted his hand to uncurl Gallagher’s fingers from his jacket. “I just work for you, old man,” he said. “Don’t push it.” He shoved Gallagher away from him and stared at him through the dripping darkness. He turned his back on him to unlock the door. He could feel Gallagher’s eyes on his back. He was listening for any movement. As he started to push the door open, Gallagher spoke.
“Wait,” he said. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a thin, silky balaclava, and pulled it over his head.
Farren stared at him and laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. He pushed the door open.
There they were, like usual, huddled in the corner together. The woman was in front. Her name was Beth. He’d started calling her by her name. The boy was huddling just behind her. He had his face buried under her arm, and she kept the arm tight around him.
“It’s alright,” Farren said, stepping into the room. He held out a bar of chocolate. “I’ve got something for you,” he said to the boy. “Here, it’s for you.”
The boy wouldn’t move, didn’t even look up. Farren offered the chocolate bar to Beth. She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. She reached out a hand and took it from him. Just then, he saw her eyes flick past him.
“Who’s that?” she said. She tightened her grip on the boy.
Farren glanced over his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said. “He’s not going to hurt you.” He turned to Gallagher. “Are you?” he added.
Gallagher walked into the light of the torch beam. Farren saw Beth shrink away. The boss looked like a freak in his suit and shirt and tie and his shiny shoes, all topped off with a balaclava. Jesus. What a moron.
“They’re not tied up,” he said.
Farren rolled his eyes. “Are you afraid they’re going to rush you, boss. I’m here to protect you.”
Gallagher grunted. “Look at me,” he said to Ben.
The boy whimpered and burrowed into his mother’s side. Gallagher squatted down in front of Beth. Farren could see the pulse in her throat. Little strands of hair lying over her shoulder were vibrating at the pace of her heartbeat. She looked up at Gallagher, she was peering into the holes of the balaclava. He could see her breath on the air. She was breathing really fast.
“What do you want?” she said. Her voice was shaking. “Please let us go,” she begged. “He’s only ten. Please let him go.” She was trying to blink away the tears in her eyes, trying to act calm. The boy was really crying now.
Farren stared at the back of the boss’s head. He thought about his foot swinging up into contact with that skull.
“Make him look at me,” Gallagher said to Beth.
She pulled the boy closer in to her side and started to shake her head, but the boss leaned in closer and poked a finger in her face.
“Do it,” he said, his teeth were grated together.
Beth flinched. She started to stroke the boy’s hair. “Sweetie,” she said. “Can you just look up at me, darling?”
“I’m scared.”
“I know, baby. But don’t worry. It’s going to be alright. It’s scary but it’s going to be alright. Can you just look up, just for a moment? Just look at me?”
The boy’s head inched up slowly from the damp burrow he’d created in his mother’s side. His hair didn’t show up red in the darkness. It was his eyes that stood out. They were huge with fear. He had deep set eyes with a heavy lid, slanting up at the corners. They were unusual eyes.
Farren looked at the boy, looked back at the boss. Suddenly he got it. Fucking hell. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any more sick. What the fuck was going on here?
The boy’s gaze moved slowly past his mother and onto Gallagher. His little face seemed to collapse, his eyes got even bigger. But just when Farren expected him to start screaming and sobbing, something different happened. He didn’t crumple. His face bunched up like a fighter as he stared at Gallagher.
Gallagher looked at him for a long time in silence.
Farren watched the two of them staring each other out. What the fuck!
Then the boss stood up suddenly, and turned around. “Alright, we’re going,” he said gruffly.
Farren watched him walk out of the room. He waited for a moment. “Have you got enough water?” he asked the woman.
She nodded. She looked completely shattered.
Farren scratched his head. “OK,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”
He walked out into the corridor and closed the door. While he was locking it, Gallagher ripped off his balaclava and shoved it back in his pocket. Farren glanced up at him.
“So what’s that all about, then?” he asked.
Gallagher curled his lip. “You don’t need to know.”
Farren straightened up and pocketed the key. “No,” he agreed. “But I’m asking.”
“And I’m not telling you,” Gallagher said.
Farren nodded slowly, as if considering his options. “Right,” he said, with a shrug. He walked on to the end of the corridor and jumped up the steps three at a time.
“Where’s that fucking light?” Gallagher wheezed behind him.
Farren ignored him, leaving the boss to struggle in the dark. Broken glass crunched under Farren’s feet as he moved into the room. He sniffed the air. Something was definitely dead in here. He wondered what Gallagher meant, when he said he’d been here before.
Martin didn’t know if it was a good sign, but at least he’d been moved out of the interrogation room and was back with DS Brownlowe. She was showing him mug shots from a file, alongside a clip of CCTV.
Martin shook his head. He’d never seen them before.
“This one goes by the name of Jango; real name Sean Hennedy,” she said, pointing to one of the photos. “And this one is Farren Brown. You’ve never seen them, never heard those names?”
Martin shook his head wearily. “That’s the clip that was on the TV, isn’t it?”
DS Brownlowe nodded, and jotted a note in her file.
“Is that...” Martin hesitated. He didn’t even like to say it. “Is she in that box? Is that what you think?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, Mr Halton. We’re following up all possibilities.”
Martin’s face furrowed as he watched the film. At the end, Marilyn had been a nightmare for him, but she’d not always been like that. She’d been young, fresh, full of confidence. For god’s sake, she’d given them her child. And for her to end up like that - stuffed in a box, dumped on a train line? It was a truly pitiful ending. He felt crushed.
DS Brownlowe leaned back in her chair. “We’ve contacted several people in the cycling club. They all confirm you were with them that night.”
Martin sighed. Why was that a relief? Of course they’d confirm it because he had been there. But it was beginning to feel like anything could twist and turn into something unrecognisable.
DS Brownlowe smiled unpleasantly. “Of course, you didn’t actually have to be th
ere to have something to do with it.”
Martin shook his head wearily. “It’s Gallagher. I’m telling you, it was Gallagher. I’ve told you what she said.”
DS Brownlowe nodded. “And DI McIntyre had the files checked, and there’s no record of a rape ever being reported.”
Martin shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain that,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably. “She said Gallagher had friends, you know, in the police.”
Brownlowe stared hard at him.
“I’m not making this up,” Martin said. “She said she was put off. Some policeman told her it wasn’t worth the grief, told her she’d be better off keeping quiet.”
“So she retracted the allegation?”
Martin pressed his hand against his forehead in exasperation. “Jesus, I don’t know. I wasn’t there. You’re saying you’ve got no record of it?”
She shook her head.
Martin sighed heavily. “Well, someone cleaned that up pretty neatly, didn’t they?”
“Or it never happened at all. Maybe you’re just making this up.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Martin looked at the ceiling. They were going round and round in circles. “Look, I’ve told you everything I know. And, you know, I don’t actually care about any of that. My wife and child are missing. I don’t know how...”
He stopped speaking as a voice was raised in the corridor. He turned towards the sound.
“GALLAGHER WAS THERE THAT NIGHT!” the voice was shouting. He heard another voice, but couldn’t make out what was said.
DS Brownlowe got up from her desk and opened the door. She looked along the corridor. The sound was much clearer now.
“How can you think that was a coincidence? She hated that man. I know it. She was my daughter. I don’t know what it was but something went wrong. She hated him. And now this? Why aren’t you looking at him?”
“We are, Mr Souter. I promise you, we are following up every possible angle.” Martin recognised DI McIntyre’s voice. “You’ll be the first person we contact if there’s any more news.”
Mr Souter? So that was Marilyn’s father. Martin heard DS Brownlowe’s heavy footsteps moving down the corridor. She was saying something to the man, or maybe she was speaking to McIntyre. Then her footsteps returned to the little room. She didn’t come inside; just held the door open.
“You can go now, Mr Halton,” she said.
Martin twisted on his chair. “But my wife? My child?”
She nodded. “We are following it up. We’ve copied the photos. There’s a door to door team out now. We’re already doing everything we can and we will consider every angle.”
What did she mean by that?
“You just want me to go home?” Martin asked incredulously. “You want me to just leave you to it?”
Just behind her, Martin saw the older man walking along the corridor towards the door into the lobby. His head was bowed.
DS Brownlowe turned for a moment. “I’ll buzz you through now, Mr Souter,” she said. She turned and looked at Martin, and gestured for him to get up.
Martin looked at the older man. He was dressed in that anonymous way he’d seen in lots of older men with a life of hard work behind them: a shapeless grey tweed jacket, a cap on his head, synthetic sweater and slacks. He looked broken, and Martin saw it written in every line of his bearing: his child was dead. And he knew, he knew Gallagher was the one.
Martin got up and followed him through the door. The older man didn’t seem to notice him. He walked towards the automatic door that led to the street. Martin went through with him and followed him down the steps. When he got to the pavement, the older man turned right.
“Mr Souter,” Martin said.
He turned round. He was stooped, but it was obvious he had once been tall and lean, like Marilyn. A straggling fringe poked out from under his cap. It was greying now, but had that sandy tinge of hair that had once been red. Martin felt as if a heavy weight was pressing down on him. The man had lost his child. He didn’t even know the beautiful boy that was his grandchild. He didn’t know the danger he was in right now.
“Who are you?” Souter asked. His voice was rough, accusing.
There were so many ways to answer that question.
“I knew Marilyn,” Martin said. “Not very well, but...”
“When did you know her?”
“Back when she was working for Gallagher, when she was his PA.”
The old man nodded.
“And I bumped into her recently,” Martin said. His mind was racing. He knew this man could be an ally, but what could he tell him; how much could he tell him?
“You did?” he said, suddenly intent. He stared at Martin, his blue eyes were full of pain. “When? What did she say?”
“Not long ago,” Martin said. “She was quite agitated. She was talking about Gallagher.”
The man’s face contorted with loathing. “I told them inside, I know it’s got something to do with that man. She hated him.” He shook his head in defeat. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”
“She told me...” Martin hesitated. “I don’t know if you want to hear this, Mr Souter.”
The older man straightened himself up. “She was my child. Whatever you know, I want to hear.”
Martin nodded and took a deep breath. He held the man’s eye as he spoke. “She told me that Gallagher raped her. That was when she got pregnant.”
Souter’s jaw slackened. He hadn’t been expecting that. “He raped her?” he echoed weakly. He looked away, his eyes peering back through the years. His shoulders slumped. “The baby? That explains it,” he said simply. “I never knew why she split up with Jon. I thought...” He shook his head. “Why didn’t she say?” His face was tortured.
Martin reached out a hand and put it on his arm. “It’s not easy to talk about.”
Souter face collapsed. He looked away, tears filling his eyes. “I let her down.”
For a moment, Martin felt the echo of his own guilt, his own responsibility for all this horror. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “This is Gallagher’s doing, not yours.”
“No, it was before then,” Souter said. “When she was a girl, I let her down. She told me things and I wouldn’t believe her. I wouldn’t let her talk about the priest like that.”
Martin looked at him silently, trying to process it. “You mean she was abused?”
Souter sighed. “We didn’t use that word back then. We didn’t talk about it back then,” he said. “That’s when I really lost her. She was never the same. Wouldn’t talk to me, didn’t trust me. Why would she?”
Martin nodded, trying to put it together with the cold and polished facade that Marilyn had presented to the world back in her PA days. That was her defence, perhaps, the way she’d had of keeping herself apart, acting as if she was untouchable. Until Gallagher reminded her that her front was no protection; that he could break through it whenever he wanted and show her just how worthless she really was. She was still alone and powerless and no one would believe her. No wonder she’d fallen apart.
Martin felt sick. He remembered the way he’d spoken to her. He’d treated her like she was some dangerous vagrant. He could have helped her.
“I told them,” he said, nodding towards the police station. “I told them what she told me about Gallagher and the rape.”
“And they still haven’t arrested him?” Souter’s cheeks were trembling.
“Gallagher has a lot of friends,” Martin said. “People who owe him favours, people who protect him. It gets brushed under the carpet.”
Souter seemed to sag. He was probably thinking of the priest. “And the police don’t exactly think I’m a credible witness,” Martin added. “And that doesn’t help.”
“Well thank you for trying,” Souter said. “Is there any more that can be done?”
Martin nodded. “I think there is. You see, I have a problem with Gallagher too, but no one’s listening to me either. I think together, perhaps, we could do somet
hing.”
“Of course,” Souter said. “What is your problem?”
Martin looked at him for a long moment before he could say the words. “Gallagher has snatched my wife and child.”
Thirty One
He had a torch this time and he didn’t have that ape, Farren, on his shoulder. He’d sent Jango on a job down south, so now he had the warehouse all to himself. Gallagher left his road bike outside the building, careful to avoid the broken glass. He walked into the main hall and swung the beam from left to right. Tatters of some grey material hung from the beams and struts, catching in the breeze, like rags of people hung there long ago. Gallagher swung the beam onto the doorway and went down the stairs to the lower level.
He walked along the narrowing corridor, listening to the roaring of the river. He liked the noise. He pulled on the balaclava before he reached the door and inserted the big key. He opened the door and the stench of vomit gusted out of the sealed room. His face wrinkled.
The woman was crouching in the corner. The child was lying on the floor, his head on her lap. She looked up into the beam of light, squinting to see beyond the glare. He saw her catch his outline and she looked away quickly. Her hand was on the boy’s head, stroking his hair.
“He’s not well,” she said. “He keeps being sick. He has to see a doctor. Please, you have to let him go.” She was crying, but weakly, like she hardly had the energy to cry.
“It stinks in here,” Gallagher said. The torchlight caught the bucket. There were splashes of vomit all around it. He shone the torch directly into her face. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, lady.” He laughed. “But you’re no lady, are you? Look at the state of you now.”
She lowered her gaze. “Please, just let him go,” she said. She was mumbling through tears. “I don’t care what you do to me, but please let him go.”
Gallagher laughed. “You don’t care? I can do what I want, can I?” He squatted down in front of her, shining the torch on her downturned face. “Lift your head up.” Her hair was greasy. He grabbed a handful and yanked her head up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
