The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘Urgent assistance needed — industrial estate at the back of Vesey Street. Officer down.’

  Denny moaned again.

  ‘Where are you hurt?’ I put a hand to his face and it came away slick with a dark, syrupy substance. Archer had found the one place not covered by Denny’s stab vest. He was leaking from his jugular, his blood oozing all over the ground and now me. Suddenly the moaning faded to an awful gurgling and he fell silent.

  ‘Denny!’ I yelled in his face, my own voice echoing back at me from the surrounding buildings. ‘Denny! Hang in there, don’t leave me!’

  It seemed an age waiting for the ambulance to come. I knelt on the icy ground, feeling the life seeping out of my friend, praying that help would come soon. I looked around me at the deserted streets. Archer had vanished, but he couldn’t go far. Whatever happened, we’d find him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The side room at the hospital seemed to be getting smaller with every circuit I made, and the waiting was driving me mad. I’d been shunted in here over an hour ago, shortly after we’d hit A&E, and no one had been near me since. I couldn’t get my head round the idea that just a few short hours ago, Denny had been whole, and on his way to retirement. A couple of times I’d stuck my head out into the corridor, but everyone I saw was going about their business as usual. I was about to walk along to the reception desk again when I saw a doctor approaching from the opposite direction. I recognised him as one of those who’d come out to attend to Denny when we’d first crashed into the hospital, and he was coming straight for me. No doubt he would try to persuade me to go home and get some rest, because Denny would be in surgery for hours. But I had no intention of leaving yet. I wanted to wait until Sheila got here and until I knew Denny would be all right. Then the doctor was standing next to me, his hand gripping my arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he was saying. ‘There was nothing more we could do.’

  ‘What?’ I heard myself say.

  ‘PC Sutton passed away fifteen minutes ago,’ the doctor repeated patiently, accustomed to this ritual. ‘We couldn’t save him.’ His sympathetic hand was still on my arm. ‘I’m very sorry, constable.’

  I felt numb. How could this have happened so quickly, and with his family still on their way to the hospital? Suddenly I became aware that Denny’s wife and sons had appeared at the other end of the corridor. My eyes met Sheila’s for an instant. I didn’t want to have to face them but fortunately, Superintendent Bowers arrived at the same time and I was saved that particular confrontation. Like the coward that I was, I ducked back into the waiting room and flopped down onto a chair. I don’t know how long I sat there, immobile, but eventually the door opened and Bowers appeared, all concern and sympathetic smiles.

  ‘Come on, son, let’s get you back to the station,’ he said.

  ‘We should let Kevin know,’ I said, vaguely.

  ‘Kevin?’

  ‘Booth, Denny’s partner. Ex-partner.’

  ‘Of course,’ he soothed, as if I was the casualty. ‘Plenty of time for that.’

  * * *

  Back at Fulford Road, everyone was in shock, the office still obscenely decorated for Denny’s party, though a couple of the lads were hurriedly trying to snatch down the balloons and bunting. People kept their distance, apart from CID who subjected me to an hour and a half in the interview suite. It had to be done, of course, as quickly as possible, and they were gentle on me.

  ‘We just need to know what happened from your point of view. It’s a witness statement, that’s all. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

  They might as well have. I felt responsible. My only task had been to keep Denny safe for just a couple more hours. How could I have failed so appallingly?

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ I was told, more than once, but to no effect. ‘It’s just one of those things.’

  Liam Archer was nowhere to be found. A bloodied knife had been found not far from where Denny fell and it would doubtless have Archer’s prints all over it, but the chances were that even when he did turn up, he probably wouldn’t be charged. If, as Denny had told me, he had a history of mental health issues he would probably spend some time in a secure hospital, where he’d be looked after. Meanwhile, who would look after Denny’s family? Mercifully, after the interview, I was told to go home.

  Sonia had a miserable weekend in my company. When I went to bed, exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come, and I lay awake much of Friday night rehearsing the events of that evening. The next day, any conversation we had just kept returning to the same old ground and finally, in an attempt to distract me, Sonia suggested we make a start on redecorating the spare bedroom. We’d already agreed on colours so all it took was a trip to the DIY store to buy the paint. But while I trailed after Sonia up and down the aisles looking for the exact shade of yellow (how many could there be?), I couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of Saturday Sheila and her sons would be having. I couldn’t let go of the idea that I shouldn’t even be at home, but should be out there doing something. Bowers had ordered me to take a few days’ leave, but what was the point? It wasn’t going to bring Denny back, was it? It was one of the longest weekends of my life. On Saturday evening, we went out for a meal.

  ‘I feel bad for grumbling about him now,’ I told Sonia.

  ‘It was justified,’ she said immediately, coming to my defence, as I knew she would. ‘It’s not your fault that he kept his distance. From what you’ve told me, you’ve barely seen him in the last couple of weeks.’ We were coming to the end of our main course and Sonia put her hand over mine, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. ‘Go and pay the bill,’ she said, nodding towards my almost empty glass. ‘I know just the thing to help you relax.’

  She was right, of course, as she so often is, and as I lay with my arm around her much later, the world seemed, if only temporarily, a better place.

  ‘This could be it,’ Sonia said, taking my hand and placing it on her stomach. ‘Even now there could be a little Fraser beginning to take shape in there.’ She put her hand over mine.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit quick?’ She’d only stopped taking the pill a few weeks ago.

  ‘You never know. In fact, I think he is. I can feel him.’ She was doing her best to keep my mind off Denny, and I loved her for it.

  ‘Oh yes? It’s “him” this time, is it?’ I played along, as I had before in the weeks since we’d decided the time was right to start our family.

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘And what’s he called tonight?’

  ‘Duncan.’ She giggled.

  ‘Duncan? Ach no, that’s a terrible old-fashioned name. It’s puny, too, and my boy’s not going to be puny.’

  ‘No, he’s going to be six foot three, handsome and muscular, with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair.’

  ‘And he’ll play for Glasgow Rangers and Scotland.’

  ‘He might prefer ballet.’

  ‘He can do anything. I don’t care.’ I remembered Stefan Greaves’ crack about the five-a-side. ‘What if he turned out to be disabled?’ I said.

  ‘That’s a funny thing to say. We’d love him just the same,’ she said, straight away. ‘But it doesn’t happen that often and there are tests they do—’

  ‘I mean, what if we did all the tests and they showed that there was something wrong?’

  She was thoughtful for a minute. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to think that it wouldn’t make any difference, but you just know that his life would be tougher. Perhaps it’s one of those decisions that you can’t make until it actually happens.’

  ‘Perhaps it is.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was dog tired by the weekend and the last thing I felt like was socialising, but I’d promised Laura, so I went to her house as planned on Saturday night. My spirits sank further when I saw a second, unfamiliar car parked on the drive of the Victorian semi, yet another of Laura’s female friends who, she would no doubt claim, had ‘just happened to
drop by’. I’d tackled her more than once about this impulse to keep trying to fix me up.

  ‘I’m not!’ she would insist. ‘I’m just introducing you to like-minded people and broadening your social circle. It’s good for you.’

  ‘So is cod liver oil, but I opted out of taking that a long time ago.’

  The air of exaggerated bonhomie when she let me in confirmed my fears. I followed her through to the lounge, where immediately the woman curled on the sofa got to her feet, hooking dark wavy hair behind her ear. She had an open, slightly tanned face, with green eyes and a wide smile. Barefoot, she came to just below my chin.

  ‘Hi.’ She came towards me, hand outstretched. ‘You must be Stefan. I’m Cate, with a “C”.’

  ‘Hello.’ I reserved judgement for now. I mean, she was pretty enough, the heart-shaped face subtly made up, but the smile was just a little too wide, the greeting slightly over-enthusiastic. Maybe I’m a little hypersensitive, too. I was fairly certain she’d had work done to her nose and fillers in the chin. With most people you can tell. My back stiffened a little. Cosmetic surgery always feels like a personal insult.

  ‘Cate’s quite new to the area,’ chirped Laura.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Cate. ‘It’s been more than eighteen months.’

  ‘Really?’ Laura seemed genuinely surprised. ‘How time flies.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s good to meet you,’ said Cate. She grasped my arm and making me wince.

  ‘Sorry, Laura may have told you, I got duffed up last week.’ Her smile slipped a little as she watched my face contort around the words, though that could have just been concentration. Smiles to sympathy in a split-second, but because of the beating or the way I struggled to talk? Oh, who the hell cared?

  ‘She did,’ Cate replied. So, at least she understood me. ‘That must have been terrible.’

  ‘Anything new on that?’ Laura asked. But before I could answer, a volley of footsteps drummed on the wooden floor behind me and the force that struck me almost knocked me off balance.

  ‘Uncle Stefan! I’ve been waiting for you. Come here!’ Reaching down, I unwrapped my three-year-old goddaughter from my legs and she crawled up me until I was holding her, none too securely, in my arms.

  I kissed her nose. ‘You women, you’re so bossy,’ I said.

  Grace giggled. ‘I’m not a wimmin, I’m a little girl!’ she protested. ‘Come on, now!’ Squirming free, she gripped my hand and dragged me through the kitchen into the playroom, talking all the time as if she was afraid her voice might run out. In those few minutes she leapt from one topic of conversation to another at breakneck speed — what had happened at nursery, the latest steps she was learning at dance class (complete with demonstration) and had I seen what Tinkerbell (the cat) had done to Mummy’s favourite blue cardigan?

  Tonight I was truly honoured, and after her bath and while Laura cooked dinner, Grace presented me with her bedtime story book and hauled herself onto my lap, stepping heavily on my groin as she did so, to make herself comfortable. Oof. I began the story.

  ‘Uncle Stefan, you’re not saying it properly!’

  There followed a small hiatus, during which Laura broke from her conversation with Cate. ‘Grace,’ she warned, gently.

  ‘But he’s not!’ my goddaughter insisted. ‘He didn’t do the “munch munch” at the end.’

  ‘So not just bossy, but pedantic too,’ I said, pouncing on her tummy, tickling her and making her shriek. ‘Munch, munch, MUNCH! There, how’s that?’

  After the story, Grace also insisted that I should put her to bed. As I came down the stairs, I couldn’t help overhearing Laura in the kitchen.

  ‘He has a lot going for him, if you know what I mean — a lot,’ she was saying. I hesitated for a moment outside the door.

  ‘You don’t have to sell him to me,’ Cate replied. ‘I like him. He’s lovely with Grace.’

  ‘Thank God. She’s wearing me out at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s how it is,’ Cate said. ‘You’re past the twelve-week mark?’

  ‘Yes, if we’ve got the dates right.’

  ‘Have you had the results of the prenatals yet?’

  ‘A few days ago. Everything came back fine,’ Laura said, clearly wanting to move on.

  ‘That must be such a relief,’ said Cate. ‘The risk gets higher incrementally as you get older and you wouldn’t want to . . .’ She broke off as I made my lopsided entrance into the kitchen.

  ‘Have one like me?’ I finished for her. It was a bit harsh and to her credit, Cate did look pretty mortified. Reaching out to touch my arm, she looked me straight in the eye.

  ‘Stefan, I’m so sorry, that was completely tactless. That’s not what I . . .’

  Of course not.

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. I took another beer out the fridge. ‘Nothing wrong with my genes anyway. Mine was a baggage handling cock-up.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Cate said to Laura. ‘It’s no wonder you’re tired. Are you still working?’

  ‘Just the odd couple of days here and there. Supply teaching’s good money. We can’t afford to turn it down, and it’s usually either at Millpool or St Barnabas, so they’re both quite handy. It would be nice to get some work up at Cavendish, but it’s pretty much a closed shop.’

  ‘St Barnabas? You must know the wonderful Father Adriano then. I hear about him a lot. To hear some of my patients talk, you’d think he was the Second Coming personified.’

  ‘He’s a charmer, all right,’ said Laura. ‘He takes assembly once a week and has the kids eating out of his hand. I’ve never seen them so rapt.’

  ‘And what about the staff?’

  ‘Well let’s just say he’s livened things up for us, too. I have one or two colleagues who would quite happily encourage him to break his vows. Although he’s not nearly as much fun as he used to be . . .’ Laura lifted her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Perhaps he’s had his wrist slapped.’

  ‘What is it with priests?’ mused Cate.

  ‘Yeah, what is it?’ I asked, genuinely mystified.

  ‘The uniform,’ said Cate and Laura in unison and laughing. They must have seen my blank face.

  ‘It’s the black clerical garb,’ said Cate. ‘Dead sexy on the right man.’

  ‘I think it’s that thing of being a priest too, the frisson of being off-limits,’ Laura added. ‘If Father Adriano really is . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cate looked scandalised.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Laura. She shrugged. ‘There are rumours.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure none of my patients are aware of that. He would go down in their estimation.’

  ‘You’re a doctor?’ I surmised.

  Cate nodded. ‘A GP.’

  ‘Which is why she’s constantly clucking over me,’ said Laura.

  ‘Someone has to,’ said Cate. ‘You must take it easy — get Simon to do more around the house.’

  Laura laughed. ‘Simon? You’re kidding, aren’t you? He never did it for Zoe or for Grace, so he’s hardly going to start now.’

  ‘He’s such a dinosaur!’ Cate exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe you let him get away with it!’

  ‘I knew what I married,’ Laura said. ‘Too late to change him now.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to stop you trying. I think I’ll have a word with him. You need to be looked after.’

  ‘Yes, doc!’ Laura mimed a mock salute.

  ‘Have you heard from Zoe?’ I asked. My other goddaughter was eighteen now and in her second term at university.

  ‘Not lately,’ Laura said. ‘Which usually means that she doesn’t need anything. I expect she’s too busy with the social life.’

  It was late when we sat down to eat, and even then Simon almost didn’t make it, his job as sub-editor on the local weekly paper keeping him out until all hours as usual. He hurried in as Laura was serving up, joining us at the table after a quick wash and goodnight kiss for Grace.

  ‘Life still pretty hectic then,’ I said, as he
sat down.

  ‘Yes, and not likely to change much. Competition from the internet is fierce.’

  ‘Thanks for the mention, by the way,’ I said, in reference to the short report on my mugging that had made the week’s edition.

  ‘No problem, and sorry I couldn’t get you on the front page. Have the police had any response on the contact number we printed?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Hm, why am I not surprised? You need to keep on at them.’

  ‘I will. My liaison officer seems to know what he’s doing, and he’s been good at keeping me up to speed.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it happened,’ Laura said. ‘Not round here.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Cate said. ‘It happens everywhere, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not according to Ashley Curzon,’ said Simon. ‘The way he has it, the streets of Charnford are paved with gold.’

  ‘And we all know who he credits with the improvement,’ I added. ‘To hear him speak, you’d think he was the sole saviour of our little town.’

  ‘You can’t argue with what he’s done, though,’ Laura said. ‘When we first came back here, the place was pretty rough around the edges, but that’s changed, now. People are moving in.’

  Simon rolled his eyes. ‘They can’t stay away from the hanging flower baskets and painted railings.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s more than just cosmetic, isn’t it? Even the Flatwood looks a bit tidier.’

  ‘And why is that? Nothing to do with the fact that the social housing is being bought up bit by bit by private landlords. They up the rent, forcing out the poorer families in some attempt at gentrification. Up the rent, ship them out and rid us of the scourge of the poor.’

  ‘Isn’t that where Curzon grew up, though?’ said Cate. ‘He must still have roots there.’

  ‘Not that you’d know it.’

  ‘But the town’s a friendlier place,’ insisted Laura.

  ‘Apart from the odd mugging,’ I felt compelled to add. I didn’t go as far as mentioning the death of a refugee baby in the poorly maintained housing. That would have crushed the evening flat.