Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  “She didn’t recognise her straight away?”

  “No,” Martin said. “It had been ten years, and it’s not like we thought about her any more. We thought we’d got away with it.”

  “Right.”

  “She’d covered up her hair,” Martin said. “She was wearing a woolly hat, with her hair tucked up inside. When she took the hat off, that’s when Beth recognised her.”

  “And what did Marilyn say? What did she want?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin shrugged.

  McIntyre’s expression hardened.

  “No, really,” Martin said. “Honestly, I don’t know what she wanted. She didn’t know either. She frightened the life out of Beth, so Beth called me and I came back. She’d given Beth her phone number, so I called her and agreed to go to the park. She said I had to bring Ben to meet her.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, of course I didn’t.”

  “OK. So you went on your own. And what happened then?”

  “Well, she went mad, of course. She was kind of deranged, on a knife edge, you know.”

  McIntyre nodded. “She wasn’t well.”

  “I know,” Martin said wearily. “She was mad with me, saying she was going to tell Beth about the affair we had. And no, we didn’t. She was just making it up. Said she’d tell Beth that Ben was my child and that all these years I’d known and I’d been lying to her.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I was stupid,” Martin said, shaking his head at his own idiocy. “I gave in. I thought she’d do it. I thought she’d tell Beth, and I thought that Beth would believe her.”

  “So when you met her, and realised who she was, you didn’t go back and tell your wife that you knew Ben’s birth mother?”

  Martin shook his head, looking at the floor. “I did what she said: I took Ben with me to the park, next time.”

  “And you didn’t tell Beth?”

  “I didn’t tell Beth.”

  “And how many times did this happen?”

  “It was only twice.”

  “And how did she seem?”

  Martin laughed. “Deranged.” He rolled his eyes, then a small frown pinched his forehead. “No, she was sad. She was desperate. I sort of felt sorry for her.”

  “Even though she was blackmailing you, you felt sorry for her?”

  Martin nodded.

  “You didn’t think it would be convenient if you could get rid of her, perhaps?”

  Martin looked at the inspector for a long moment. “Of course I thought that.”

  “So she couldn’t tell your wife, couldn’t try and get her baby back.”

  “She didn’t want Ben,” Martin said. “Don’t you get that?”

  “Then why was she there? Why was she talking to you?”

  “She was desperate,” Martin said. “I get it now. She’d lost her life. Ten years of her life. Her child. Her career, her family, everything.”

  McIntyre frowned.

  “She was thrashing around,” Martin said. “She didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted to get it all back. She wanted the years back. She wanted to be the person she used to be. She wanted revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “For the rape.”

  “Oh right. This is the Gallagher story?”

  Martin sucked in a deep breath. “It’s not a story. Or at least it’s not my story. That’s what she told me. That’s how she got pregnant. She was raped.”

  McIntyre raised an eyebrow. “And you know that there’s no record of her ever reporting a rape.”

  Martin shrugged. “She said she had, but then she retracted it.”

  “There’d still be a record,” McIntyre said.

  “I’ve been through all this with your sergeant,” Martin said. “Someone could have pulled it.”

  McIntyre smiled. “That doesn’t really happen, you know.”

  “Not even for people with friends in high places?”

  “Not even them.”

  “We’re going back ten years, don’t forget,” Martin reminded him. “Things have changed in the last ten years haven’t they? Computerised records and all that. It wasn’t always that way, was it? In those days, a piece of paper could make its way out of a file, and it’s like it was never there.”

  “Maybe in business, Mr Halton, but there have always been checks and cross checks in police records.”

  Martin grunted in derision. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  McIntyre shrugged. “OK. So imagine that there was a rape, for which we have no record, you’re saying that’s why she vanished?”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “That’s why she fell apart, that’s why she left her job.” He looked hard at McIntyre. “And that’s why she’s dead.”

  “She’s dead, because of a ten year old rape allegation, for which we have no record?”

  “She’s dead because she was dragging it all up again.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. If he’d wanted her dead, he could have done it then. Why do it now?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin said sarcastically. “Could it be because he’s standing for election?”

  “Couldn’t he just shut her up again? If he’d managed that all these years.”

  Martin laughed. “Come on, man. Yewtree! Weinstein! Things have changed. Imagine you’re standing for election and some woman turns up accusing you of rape, says you got away with it all these years. Says the police helped to cover it up.”

  McIntyre narrowed his eyes.

  Martin leaned forward and shook his head. “It wasn’t me who needed her dead.”

  Thirty Four

  Gallagher pulled out a suitcase from the bottom of the built in wardrobe. He yanked a few blue shirts from the rail and tossed them in. Then he stared at it in confusion.

  A suitcase? No, not a suitcase. He rummaged in the bottom of the wardrobe and found a black holdall that he used for the gym. That was more like it. He discarded the shirts and pulled open a drawer. Socks, underwear, some t shirts, a fleece. It was so hard to think.

  He lifted his hands to his head, his fingers pulling on the cropped hair. He looked in the bag: socks, t shirts, pants. No, it was OK. Just the basics, that’s right. He just needed a few days, just to steady up, get a grip again. He pulled open more drawers, threw in a waterproof coat. He took off his suit and threw it on the bed. He pulled on a black tracksuit and trainers.

  His phone rang. It was muffled, still in his suit jacket pocket. It stopped before he could get to it. He looked at the screen. So many messages. It made him feel tired. He went to the voicemail. Jim, from the local selection committee, sounding hysterical. Delete. Steve. Delete. Steve. Delete. Becca: when will he be back? Papers need signing. People asking all these questions. Delete. Next, some witless tart from head office asking him to call urgently. Delete. Then that tosser, Anthony Barrington, whose voice always sounded like it was mangled by a guffaw, haw, haw, haw. Lester, we’ve been hoping you’d get back to us. I don’t want to break the news in this way, but I’d rather you heard it from us than picked it up from the press. The press reports, well... It’s obvious you’ve been under a lot of strain. We think you need to take a bit of time out. This isn’t the time to be contesting an election. Lester, I’m afraid we have no choice but to deselect you. I’m sure you’ll understand that this is the right thing for you as well as for the party. Do call.

  Lester felt the blood throbbing painfully through his neck. He went to his bedside drawer and grabbed a bottle of tablets. He took one and threw the bottle in the bag. He listened to the message one more time, then he jabbed through the menu to get to Steve. He answered on the first ring.

  “Lester, where the fuck have you been? What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Deselect me?” Lester screamed. “You‘ve let these bastards deselect me?”

  “Lester, mate, calm down,” Steve said.

  “You’re my fucking agent. You’re supposed to deal with this
, smooth things over.”

  “Smooth things over?” Steve was laughing now. “Jesus Christ, Lester. You’re on the TV throttling a teenage girl. There’s no fucking way of smoothing that over.”

  “TV? There was no TV there. What are you on about?”

  “They got it on their phones, Lester.” He sighed. “Look mate, you better come in, you know. There’s stuff to sort out, the police...”

  “Police can lick my arse,” he shouted. “I’m standing. You can tell those bastards I’ll stand as an independent. It’s me people are voting for. ME, do you get it?”

  Steve laughed. “Yeah, whatever, mate. You know I really can’t help you with that.”

  “Fucking traitor.”

  “I’m not a traitor, Lester. I just know when I’m beat.”

  Gallagher clicked the end call button. “Bastard,” he muttered. He zipped the phone into a pocket and fastened the bag. He just needed a day or two to unwind, and then he’d relaunch. A scuffle with teenage chavs – people would congratulate him on that! That was nothing. But that woman, that kid. He had to sort them out. He had to finish that for good.

  He hauled the bag onto his shoulder and was about to leave the bedroom when he heard a car pull up and then another. They were driving fast, stopping suddenly. He stood behind the curtain and glanced through the slatted blinds. Police. Fucking police, coming to his house. Well, they could fuck off. He wasn’t going to talk to them. Not now. He stood very still, watching them coming up the drive. One of them was on his radio. There was that bastard McIntyre. He had paperwork. Gallagher narrowed his eyes. What was the paperwork? Maybe he had a warrant.

  He stepped back from the window and into the hallway. They were at the door now, knocking on the door. It was a glass door, and he couldn’t get downstairs and to the rest of the house without walking past the door. What the fuck was he going to do?

  He looked up. The attic. He’d go in the attic, just until they’d gone. He reached for the pole and twisted the latch, pulling the hatch slowly down. It creaked a little, but they wouldn’t hear that from outside. He heard them banging on the door. He pulled on the ladder, unfolding it carefully. They were shouting through the letter box, calling him to come down and open the door.

  Gallagher wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He straightened the ladder steps, setting them firm on the carpet.

  “Mr Gallagher, I have a warrant to enter these premises. There’s no need to break down the door if you will let us in.”

  They’d be in any minute. He threw the bag up into the attic. It didn’t quite make it and fell down on his head. Gallagher grunted and grabbed the bag, climbing onto the first step. He threw the bag up and it disappeared into the darkened attic. He could hear them fiddling with the door lock.

  His breath was heaving as he climbed the steps and sprawled onto the attic floor. The ladder. He had to get the ladder up. They were still messing with the lock, but soon they’d give up and smash the door in. He reached through the open hatchway and pulled on the ladder. It was braced against the floor and wasn’t shifting.

  He pulled again. No movement. He leaned further forward, his weight shifting, and with a sudden lurch he was falling back through the hatch. He threw out an arm and braced himself against the opening. For a second he teetered on the balance, before his weight shifted back into the attic. He could feel something tearing in his shoulder.

  “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. Rage was pumping the blood through him, banging in his head. He reached down and yanked hard on the ladder, and at last it gave. He pulled up the first section, and folded it over, the sections banging into each other. They couldn’t hear because they were battering on the door now. Any second it would give way. He folded up the final section of ladder. The ladder was fixed to the hatch door. It was heavy. It was too heavy.

  Sweat was dripping down his face, mixed with tears of rage. He wasn’t going to be found hiding in his own attic. No fucking way. He pulled on the hatch and it began to move. It was tearing the muscles in his arms, but slowly it was coming, slowly. He was blocking out the light from below, and then he heard the smash as the front door crashed open.

  He was gasping for breath. He opened his mouth wide to let the air in and out with less noise. He was lying flat on his belly on the attic floor, holding up the hatch door. The latch was on the outside and he couldn’t fix the hatch in place. He just had to hold it and it was too fucking heavy.

  “Check the back room, check the kitchen.”

  “No one’s come out the back way, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Utility, sir. He’s not in there.”

  “OK. Upstairs.”

  His arms were shaking with the effort of holding the hatch door up. His shoulder was screaming in pain. He could hear them coming up the stairs, heavy muffled footsteps on the carpet. His sweating fingers were trembling, as he grimaced, his eyes closed, every effort focused on holding up the hatch door. They were just below him. Their voices were clear.

  “Bathroom’s clear, sir.”

  “Back room’s empty.”

  “This is his bedroom, here.”

  “Yeah, he’s obviously been in. Looks like he was packing in a hurry.”

  If he could just wedge something under the ladder, then perhaps that would hold it. His muscles felt like elastic bands, stretched and ready to snap. He couldn’t hold it much longer. They were picking over the things in his bedroom. There was a call from downstairs.

  “His passport’s still here, sir.”

  He heard McIntyre’s voice. “He’s not gone far, then.”

  Even in pain, he smiled. You stupid bastard, I’m right here. He could see a long steel rule just to his right. He reached out with a foot and touched it. It made a noise, clanging against the chipboard floor. They didn’t hear. They were too busy pulling apart his stuff.

  “Box up that laptop, any disks, anything like that.”

  Inch by inch, he moved the steel rule towards the hatch. The pain was like nothing he’d ever known. He couldn’t fucking hold it. His arms were on fire, his back was screaming. Salt was dripping into his eyes and he blinked it away. They were traipsing backwards and forwards right beneath the hatch. At last the steel rule was close enough.

  He could hear Brownlowe now, speaking to McIntyre. “Says he spoke to him ten minutes ago. Says he was off his head.”

  Fucking Steve. Sticking the knife in his back.

  He looked at the steel rule. Could he hold the hatch with one arm, while he grabbed the rule? Well, he couldn’t hold it much longer, so he was going to have to fucking try. He adjusted his grip with his good arm and braced for the extra weight. His right hand whipped out from under the ladder, grabbed the rule and slid it into the space between the ladder and the hatch door. It was braced against the attic floor. Slowly, he released his hold. It wasn’t strong enough, the hatch was sagging. But it was doing something; it was taking some of the weight. He looked around, saw a length of steel bracketing. If he could get that, it would be enough. But to get it, he’d have to let go. He listened to them down below. They were showing no signs of getting out. That McIntyre wanted them to pack the whole fucking house. There was nothing for it. He eyed the steel bracketing, calculating the move he’d need to make. In one lunge, he could grab it and move back. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the effort. He had one chance.

  “Right,” he said, under his breath. He let go of the hatch, slid across the floor, grabbed the bracketing, and slid back. The hatch had sagged a good six inches. He grabbed it and pulled it back up and lay still, listening to them over the heaving of his breath. No one had noticed. He allowed himself a breath of laughter. He shoved the steel bracketing into place next to the steel rule. He released his hold. It didn’t budge. He laughed again, quietly, as he lay back on the chipboard floor. Now, he could wait them out.

  Martin walked into the house and listened to the silence.

  “Beth?” he tried, quietly.
He knew they weren’t there. He was standing with his back leaning against the wall. He allowed himself to slide down until he was sitting on the hallway floor. He was so tired. He didn’t know how long it was since he had slept. He dropped the keys onto the wooden floor, and let his chin drop onto his chest. He closed his eyes, imagining them here. If he tried, he could hear their voices. Ben, leaping from sofa to chair, play fighting with Jusef. “I am immortal,” he shouted. He could hear the click clack of Beth’s heels. “Dinner’s ready,” she called. It was all so normal, so ordinary, and already he could feel it slipping away. For a fraction of a moment, he sensed the life beyond, life as a widower, a bereaved parent. He slammed that shut. He wouldn’t think that, not even for a second. They were alive. He was going to get them back.

  How much faith could he put in McIntyre? He didn’t know. But he couldn’t just sit here. He stood up slowly and immediately felt sick. He had to eat something. He didn’t feel like eating, but he knew he must. He needed to fuel himself to keep going. He walked through the empty sitting room. He paused to look out through the glass door of the conservatory, through to the garden and the climbing frame. A sweatshirt of Ben’s was still draped over the ladder. A throbbing pain filled his head. He walked on to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and poured out a glass of apple juice. It tasted thick and sweet. He forced himself to swallow. He poured out a bowl of muesli. He sniffed at the milk and then poured it on. He sat down at a bar stool and started munching doggedly.

  They’d finally turned him out of the station after hours and hours of questioning, back and forth over the same story, over and over again, cross checking each detail to see if he’d contradict himself. If he had been lying, there was no way he could have kept it straight. He felt like he’d been unpicked, all the stuffing taken out, and shoved back in again.

  At one point, an officer had come into the room to speak to McIntyre. He’d been carrying a mobile phone.