The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Yeah well, if you’re OK then I’d better be off.’ He stood up as if he was suddenly in a hurry to be out of there.

  Lila didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. If she was surprised at his abrupt exit she tried not to let it show. ‘You know your way out, don’t you? Should know your way around by now. I’m going to watch the news.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, although it seemed like he wanted to say a lot more. Lila kept her head angled away from him, feigning interest in the TV. She missed his look of angry exasperation as he left the room.

  Lila didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe until she heard the front door closing, the motorbike revving away. She waited a few seconds, just to be sure. Then her expression changed. ‘You can come in now.’

  Pearl entered the room.

  ‘Did you hear all that?’

  Pearl nodded.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘About what in particular, Iraq?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Pearl shrugged, spoke like she was trying to convince herself. ‘Well they might have been in Iraq together. I mean, Tom never said that they weren’t. When was Iraq? After Afghanistan or the same time?’

  Lila shook her head. ‘Tom said Afghanistan.’

  ‘Maybe they were in Iraq as well.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Tom mention that? He said Afghanistan.’ Lila thought. ‘Tom wasn’t in Iraq . . .’

  ‘But what does he want with us then? How does he really know Tom?’ Pearl asked, then a sudden thought, ‘He’s been in this house. He knows who we are, what we look like, where we go, he’s been round the house, he knows how to get at us . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Lila, louder than she had expected, Pearl’s fear contaminating her like an airborne virus.

  Pearl stopped speaking. ‘What are we going to do?’ Almost a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And as she spoke, the carapace she had presented to Quint began to crumble.

  ‘I really don’t know . . .’

  48

  Dean Foley leaned back, eyes closed, body rigid, while Kim worked her particular kind of magic. He almost didn’t hear the cell door open but he heard the voice when it spoke.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  Foley shot forwards, sent Kim spilling onto the floor. Governor Paul Shelley stood in front of them, a smirk on his lips. ‘Officer Shelton. I didn’t know you were so talented.’

  Kim pulled her uniform together and stood quickly. She turned her back on the Governor who leered at her until she was fully clothed and, red-faced, hair dishevelled, she left the cell as quickly as possible.

  Shelley watched her go, turned back to Foley who had pulled himself together and was standing up. Shelley grinned. ‘Well, well, well. Who knew?’

  ‘You did,’ said Foley. ‘You know exactly what happens in here and when. And who with. You probably take a cut of what I pay her. Is that why you’ve decided to visit me now?’

  Shelley’s smirk faltered. Foley continued.

  ‘Asked her to do that for you, yeah? Know she comes to see me so you thought you’d get a bit of it for yourself, that it? But she knocked you back so you try and humiliate her like this?’ He shook his head. ‘Pathetic.’

  Shelley stood fuming. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘I could have made the journey. No hardship.’

  ‘Neither was it to come here.’

  ‘I’ll bet. And it does you no harm to be seen on the wings, does it? Reminds them all what you look like.’

  ‘What do you want?’ More of a statement than a question. Shelley’s voice flat, wanting this over with.

  Foley sat back down, lit a cigarette. Shelley seemed about to tell him there was no smoking, but a look from Foley stopped him. He took a deep lungful, held it, exhaled slowly, enjoying every second. Even sitting down while Shelley stood he looked in command.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, regarding the burning tip, ‘I want to go out.’

  Shelley looked like he couldn’t understand the words. ‘You – what? You – want to go out?’

  ‘Little trip out. To the moors. Bit of fresh air. Good for the system.’ Still examining the tip of his cigarette.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s ridiculous. I can’t let you go wandering on the moors.’

  ‘Why not? You’re letting Cunningham and Killgannon do it.’

  ‘That’s different. There’s a reason for that. And you know it.’

  ‘There’s a reason I want to go out too.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Foley took the cigarette away from his mouth, stared at Shelley. Shelley flinched before the unblinking gaze.

  ‘I want to talk to Killgannon.’

  ‘Talk to him in here. I’m sure the lovely Dr Louisa could arrange something.’

  ‘She’s trying to. But if Killgannon’s out with Cunningham I’m guessing that he’s not going to be coming back. That right?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Killgannon’s undercover law. If he’s out with Cunningham then that must be his job. Get him to give up the bodies. Then he’ll be off on his next assignment and I’ll have lost him. With me so far?’

  Shelley didn’t answer straight away. Just stared, slightly slack-jawed at Foley.

  ‘So is that a yes?’

  ‘I . . . Killgannon will be back. I assure you.’

  Foley smiled. ‘I like my idea the best.’

  He sat back, resumed smoking, dragging long and deep on his cigarette. Watching Shelley all the while. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the Governor said yes.

  Foley took his silence for agreement. ‘And I want to take Baz with me.’

  ‘No. That’s too much. I could find a way to explain why you were out there but no one else.’

  ‘Baz is coming with me. End of. Do whatever you have to do, I’ll pick my escort, probably Chris, he’s a good bloke. Dependable.’

  ‘When do you want to do this?’

  ‘Same time Killgannon and Cunningham are out.’

  Shelley made one last attempt at standing up for himself. ‘But there might be media, TV cameras following Cunningham. I can’t have them seeing you as well. What would happen then?’

  Foley stood up. He wasn’t very tall but he towered over the Governor. ‘I run this place for you, Paul. I make sure there are no riots, that no one gets out of hand. That there are no fights over drugs or anything else. I keep a lid on everything. It’s in your interests as well as mine to keep this place running smoothly, isn’t it?’

  Shelley nodded, dumstruck.

  ‘Well, that’s the price you pay. Letting me have a few little jaunts. I mean, just imagine what would happen if you said no . . . couldn’t guarantee there’d be a safe place for you and your staff anywhere in this prison . . .’

  Shelley sighed. ‘All right, then. I’ll make sure you’re out when Cunningham and Killgannon are out. But please keep away from any cameras. Or the police.’

  Foley smiled. ‘I made a career out of it.’

  Shelley turned to the door, in a sudden hurry to leave. He turned. ‘Why Killgannon? Why do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘We used to be close, back in another life,’ Foley said. ‘And I’ve got a message for him.’

  Shelley left. He didn’t want to hear any more.

  49

  Dr Louisa Bradshaw drove north.

  She had phoned Middlemoor police station in Exeter, asked to speak to Detective Constable Blake’s superior officer. She didn’t know why Shelley hadn’t done that. It wasn’t difficult. She was put through to a DCI Harmer, told him who she was, what the situation was.

  ‘I’m phoning about Tom Killgannon,’ she had said.

  Silence on the line.

  ‘I believe he’s working for you within Blackmoor. To do with Noel Cunningham?’

  More silence. Louisa felt as if Harmer was deciding whether to confirm her story. She pushed on.

  ‘His handler was Detective Ins
pector Sheridan? I understand he’s dead now.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Doctor?’

  ‘You have a Detective Constable Blake working for you?’ She made the statement a question. ‘She stated that she has no knowledge of Mr Killgannon.’

  ‘And why would my Detective Constable want to confirm or deny that?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to you to get this all sorted out.’

  More silence. Eventually Harmer spoke. ‘Can you verify you are who you say you are?’

  ‘I think it’s best if I come and see you, DCI Harmer. That way we can get this sorted out, quickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, the reluctance in his voice unmistakable, ‘Why don’t you make an appointment for later this week?’

  ‘I’m afraid things have moved on and it’s more pressing than that. Cunningham’s confessed the location of the bodies and insists on Killgannon accompanying him onto the moor. So could I come to see you after I finish work this evening?

  They hung up and when Louisa had finished work, she got into her semi-ancient Mini and drove from Blackmoor to Exeter.

  Shelley hadn’t been happy at the idea of Tom Killgannon accompanying Cunningham out on the moors. Shelley hadn’t been happy about anything.

  ‘So he is undercover. And he’s been operating in my prison without anyone informing me.’

  ‘Seems that way. And now Cunningham wants him outside with him.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘You’ll get a lot of publicity from this. It’ll be a vindication that your rehabilitation methods work.’

  Shelley almost changed personality before her eyes. Sat up straighter, favoured her with what she supposed he believed was his good side. Vanity. That was all she had to appeal to in the man. Or most men, when she thought about it.

  ‘But. We don’t tell Cunningham that Killgannon’s undercover. It might make him recant.’

  ‘I can see that logic, yes.’

  ‘And we don’t tell Killgannon that we know either. Let him sweat a bit longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  A sly smile appeared on Shelley’s lips. ‘Because the bastard thought he could sneak into my prison and not tell me what he was up to. That’s why.’

  Petty and vindictive, thought Louisa. But understandable.

  She tried to replay the day’s events as she drove. Sort through everything that had happened so she could switch off and enjoy the evening. That was what she usually did, but found it different tonight as she was still working, sort of. On a normal night she would get home to her flat in Truro, kick off her boots, stick the TV on, pour herself a glass of wine, feed the cat and, while waiting for her partner Nicola to arrive home, put the day into context. She tried to do that now while driving and listening to Radio 2. It wasn’t the same.

  The A roads leading away from Blackmoor had, she thought, a nerve describing themselves as such. They could only be considered that in relation to where they were. They twisted round forests, went up and down hills, gave out on to both breathtaking scenery on precarious slopes and huge high hedges that hid oncoming traffic. She was on one such section now. Darkness had fallen so she should have been able to gauge headlights as they came towards her. She wasn’t good at gauging distances in the dark. Her own fault, she had put off going to the opticians for new glasses. She was looking forward to getting on the straighter roads that were well lit and she could put her foot down.

  She thought of Dean Foley and Tom Killgannon. Hoped she was doing the right thing by getting them together. Hoped she would get the chance to, if Tom Killgannon didn’t disappear after Cunningham located the bodies. Dean seemed to think it was a good idea, although she was slightly unnerved by his final response to her. She just hoped that he was a changed enough man not to slip back into his persona. She liked to think that her work counted for something, that he had made progress. And Tom Killgannon. A wounded man. Looked like he was in a prison of his own making before he came to Blackmoor. Maybe he could—

  ‘Jesus!’

  The motorbike came from nowhere. Roaring out from a blind bend, bearing straight towards her. She pulled the wheel over to the left, felt the car shake and judder as it hit the embankment, the hedge, heard the scratching of hawthorn and bramble along the side of the car. She managed to wrestle back control, stopped the car crashing into the side.

  Heart hammering, she checked round to see where the bike had gone. No sign of it. Or any other traffic. She took deep breaths, calmed herself down.

  Bet that bastard’s caused me damage, she thought. I’ll need the paintwork looking at.

  She kept going. Slightly slower now, more aware of oncoming vehicles.

  The road wound out of the hedges into a forested area, began to climb steadily. The denuded trees formed a canopy over the road. She looked to her left, saw a steep drop into the trees.

  And heard the powerful revving of a motorbike once more.

  Headlights filled her mirror, temporarily blinding her. She squinted, tried to make out the road ahead although she could still see the image of the headlights ghosting on her retinas.

  The bike overtook her. She tried to look out, see who the rider was. Couldn’t make out anything. Leather jacket, full face helmet, dark visor down. He drew level with her car, began to move into her door.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  Her first response was to pull the wheel to the left, get her car away from him, but that would tip her over the edge and down the slope into the trees. She put her foot down, tried to speed past him. But her Mini was no match for the bike. Without expending much effort, he pushed his bike to match her speed, an angry roar from the engine. She felt like he was actually going slower than his bike was capable of. And at the moment, he was just keeping pace with her.

  That gave her an idea. She slammed on the brakes, coming to a stop with a screech of rubber. The bike kept going. At least for a few seconds before the rider realised what had happened and swung round in the middle of the road, coming straight towards her.

  Louisa started to panic. The headlights were becoming blindingly huge in her windscreen. She didn’t know whether to pull forwards or to reverse. Or to just sit there. No: she couldn’t just sit there. She had to do something.

  She put the car in gear. Tried to swing round, go back the way she had come. The rider anticipated her movement, swung his bike out to stop her. She stepped hard on the brake, the seatbelt pulling the air from her lungs as she leapt forwards.

  He turned the bike again, ready to come at her. She put her foot down and drove.

  He quickly caught up with her.

  Louisa was frantic now.

  The bike pulled alongside her, pushed itself into her car. Instinctively she swerved again, just managing to avoid a roll down the embankment, straightening up once more.

  But the bike didn’t allow her to get back onto the road where she had been. It took up that position, had moved two of the Mini’s wheels onto the dirt and gravel at the side of the road. The car began to skid, half on, half off the uneven surface. The front wheel hit a branch causing her to lose control. She screamed, managed to right herself again. Kept driving.

  The bike pushed again. The Mini’s front wheel hit a rock. The steering wheel leapt from her hands. The car began to swerve from side to side, juddering away from her control. She tried desperately to turn the wheel, keep the car upright and on the road, but the bike wouldn’t let her.

  All four wheels were off the road now.

  A tree loomed up ahead of her.

  She swung the wheel uselessly to avoid hitting it head on.

  And the car rolled down the embankment into the trees.

  Part Four

  HUNTED

  Two days after that night in Manchester

  Constable Annie Blake stood at the back of the interview room, by the door, hands behind her back. Anonymous as a person, barely a presence. Just a faceless uniform. Not what she joined the force for. But observing, processi
ng all the time.

  Before her, Dean Foley, his expensive solicitor next to him, was being questioned by two detectives. Two days in custody had scrubbed off Foley’s usual dangerous charm. Now there seemed less pretence about who he was or who he thought he was.

  She had seen these two detectives at work before. DI Torrance and DS Sharp. Physical opposites: gravity pulled Torrance’s large body downwards like a full bin bag. His hair was the colour of used tea bags, fingers also, from nicotine. Sharp’s name was near literal, he was all bones and teeth. His elbows looked like they could cut. The only thing they had in common, she thought, was they were both mid-level careerists. Doing what they would call a good job, which for them meant crossing the ‘t’s and dotting the ‘i’s. Putting a file together to present to the CPS. And that would be that.

  I won’t end up like either of them, Blake thought.

  In the short time she had been on the force she had grown to detest most of her superiors. They were dull time-servers, superior in name only. She was there for advancement. In whatever way she could do it.

  Foley’s mouthpiece droned on, making sure he was seen to be earning his fee. The detectives nodded, answered his points briefly. Foley sat so still it barely seemed he was breathing. He looked at Blake like an animal waiting for its prey to display the slightest weakness.

  The detectives started the tape, cautioned him, ran through their list of pre-prepared questions. Foley said his ‘no comment’s in as disinterested a manner as possible. The detectives kept going, the solicitor looked alert. Foley gave the same answer, not even changing the bored, off-hand inflection in his voice. It was a charade to be endured by both sides. In TV dramas interviews were shown as violent confrontations, verbal cat and mouse games, even near–religious confessionals. Real life was nothing like that.

  Or so she thought.

  ‘So where’s the money, Dean?’ Torrance, the senior detective asked.

  Foley paused, didn’t answer straight away.

  His solicitor looked at him, waiting for an answer. Before he could give it, sensing an opening, the other detective, Sharp, jumped in.