Riggs switched off. ‘I think we both know what he looks like.’
XXXV
Malcolm the dog had eyes on different levels in his big, white face. They could give you the idea that Malcolm was unstable, dangerous even. Plus, he was part bull-terrier, with a mouth like a gin-trap.
But Bobby Maiden knew that Malcolm was basically innocent. Whatever was happening, he just wanted to be part of it, part of the pack. Bobby Maiden petted the dog and talked to him because this was simple and warming and it didn’t make you cry.
He sat in the study, on a hard chair, with his back to the window. He didn’t need ever to move. The study was lined with bookshelves separated by bricks. There were thousands of books.
Books about Big Mysteries.
Marcus said, ‘What the hell’s the matter with him? What have you done to him?’
‘Not me.’ Cindy had been back to the pub for a change of clothing. He looked neat and clean and powdered and coiffeured, his bangles jangling. But the eyes were bloodshot and the make-up extra thick to hide the lines of strain.
‘He’s like a bloody backward child!’ Marcus said.
‘He will be fine. Why don’t you make us all some tea, Marcus. Feel free to take your time.’
They’d fed Bobby Maiden local honey on a slice of crisp toast. The honey tasted incredible. Probably nothing had tasted this good since he was a kid.
Which was wrong. Nothing should taste good this morning. Why did the honey taste good? Why did the air taste pure? Why was he aware of breathing? When, not twelve hours ago, he was sitting in the dark by a dry fountain wishing he was properly dead because of his inability to do the business … and the real horror only just beginning?
There was a clock over the fireplace, the only wall without books. The clock did not tick. It went
Malcolm yawned. His eyes closed tight and opened.
Maiden thought about Emma Curtis. He remembered awakening once and seeing her eyes in the haze around the candle on the stone, as clearly as he saw Malcolm’s eyes now.
She was dead. He didn’t know why she died. There was no earthly reason she should have died. Been killed.
Malcolm became a blur.
‘Marcus is, I suppose you’d say, in denial.’
Cindy’s left-hand bangle displayed amethysts; each stone had a vivid interior life.
‘Like little Grayle Underhill, spent most of his life, he has, wanting to believe, and then something happens and he goes into denial. Seen it before. Happened to me, even. A long time ago. No, I’m lying, it still happens. There’s always a part of us that doesn’t want to believe, and sometimes it takes over and we get angry with ourselves for being so credulous. A phase, it is, that’s all.’
Bobby Maiden was thinking about painting. One week, soon after Liz moved out, he’d painted only in white — acrylic, layer upon layer, different densities, all white.
Cindy held up a white envelope that bulged.
‘Don’t you want to know what’s in this, Bobby?’
‘Not just now, if that’s OK with you.’
‘Don’t you want to ask if
Maiden stroked Malcolm’s ears.
‘Yours isn’t a phase, Bobby. You’ve got trouble. You can deal with it or you can run away. This is just a respite. Thinking time. It isn’t even denial.
‘Go bloody mad,’ Maiden said, in Norman Plod’s voice. ‘Cut their ears off.’
Hunched on the edge of her sofa, Andy felt her insides contract. Looked at her roughened hands.
Her eyes rose to the photo of the Golden Valley from High Knoll.
‘A shock for all of us, Mrs Anderson.’ Riggs had his arms folded. ‘You think you know someone, but you never do, quite.’
How was a state registered nurse supposed to live with this? She found it hard to look at Riggs. A long second passed.
‘Going to destroy his father,’ Riggs said. ‘I met him recently. At the hospital. Old-fashioned, letter-of-the-law copper. Very sad.’
‘How can you be sure? How can you be sure this is down to Bobby?’
‘Mrs Anderson, I’d give anything if it wasn’t, believe me.’ The guy looked bowed down with grief. ‘We’re waiting for forensics, obviously. But, ask yourself why, if he had nothing to do with it, did he leave the scene? And when does this kind of murderer ever strike in a hotel room booked for two?’
She felt Bobby’s head between her hands. The incredible holiness of the moment less than two weeks ago. Oh Jesus
‘Think about it,’ Riggs said. ‘Call me.’ He placed a card on the top of the TV set. ‘My mobile.’
‘I can’t help you,’ Andy said. ‘I’m sorry.’
She stood up. Riggs turned slowly and examined the picture on the wall.
‘Mysterious.’ Like this was a social call. ‘You take this, Mrs Anderson?’
‘No. A friend.’
‘I’m trying to place it. Cotswolds?’
‘Herefordshire,’ Andy said, dry-mouthed.
‘Welsh border. I see. Spend holidays there?’
‘Once or twice.’
Riggs nodded, moved to the door.
‘Look, if he was the kind to kill a woman,’ Andy said desperately, ‘then, my God, would that wee bitch Lizzie Turner be alive today?’
‘Perhaps she was lucky.’ Riggs turned at the door. ‘Look, if it helps you, he won’t wind up in Dartmoor. He’s a sick man. He’ll get the care he needs.’
‘Soil, it is,’ Cindy said. ‘Earth.’
Shaking out the last crumbs on Marcus’s desk.
‘I don’t get it,’ Bobby said.
‘This is what came out of you when you vomited on the Knoll.’
He rubbed his empurpled eye, as though he was only now waking up. Which perhaps he was. Awakening, perhaps, into a different world where there were different laws.
Cindy took a soil crystal and rubbed it to powder between finger and thumb. ‘I’m not going to spend hours trying to convince you, lovely. I saw this come from your mouth onto the stone. Marcus saw it too, but Marcus is in denial. There we are.’
‘OK,’ Bobby said slowly. ‘Say I believe it. How?’
‘It seemed to have been in your mouth, your throat. Whether it was ever in your lungs is debatable. But …’ Cindy wondered how to put this. ‘… it was certainly in your
Bobby’s hand at his throat.
