Do the things Ian wanted him to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Fightin’. Taught him how to box when he was tiny. Was always throwin’ punches at him. Wanted him to harden up, he said. Stand up for himself. Made him play rugby because he said football was for poofs. Took him into the woods. Said he was gettin’ him to hunt for things.’ A shadow passed over those dark, ravaged eyes. ‘That’s what he said. But there must have been somethin’ else going’ on.’
‘You mean he was abusing him?’
Paula nodded her head slowly. A ghost image wavering on a badly tuned TV.
‘Yes. For years he was… he was doin’ that. Years…’
‘Is that why you left him?’
‘He left us, I told you.’ Sharp, a weary kind of fire in the words.
‘Where did he go?’
She didn’t answer. Just returned her head to the floor. Not soon enough. Phil saw what flitted across her face.
She’s said too much, he thought. And knew just what had happened to Ian Harrison.
‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ Phil’s voice was quiet, nonjudgemental. Encouraging her to continue.
She sat completely still for a while until she eventually nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’
90
Mark Turner looked up when Mickey entered the interview room. File under his arm, walk purposeful, expression confident. He just hoped he could be as efficient as he looked.
He sat down, opened the file. Studied it for a few moments. Turner sat opposite him, slumped in his chair, resolutely resisting the urge to sit up, lean forward or even acknowledge Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept his head down, apparently reading.
The curiosity became too great for Turner. He just had to see what Mickey was reading. Slowly he leaned forward, surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of what was in the file. Mickey snapped the file shut, looked up.
‘So who’d win in a fight, then?’ he asked.
Turner looked puzzled.
‘Dracula or Frankenstein, who d’you reckon?’
Turner’s eyes widened, mouth gaped. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.
‘Er…’ Turner began to speak, give an honest answer. Then a smug smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s not Frankenstein. It’s the Frankenstein monster. Frankenstein was the name of the man who created him.’ He sat back, triumph in his eyes. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘That’s what I said,’ said Mickey, not missing a beat. ‘Who would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein? Not the monster. The Baron. The Peter Cushing Baron. And the Christopher Lee Dracula.’
He waited. Turner’s eyes widened again.
‘Oh. Right. Dracula. Obviously.’
‘You sure? I mean, yeah,’ said Mickey, leaning forward, arms on the table as if it was just two mates in a pub having a chat, ‘physically, yeah. Dracula. No contest. But the Baron…’ Mickey shook his head. ‘Tricky. He wouldn’t play fair. He’d have traps and things waiting. Devices. Gizmos. I reckon it’s him.’
Turner leaned forward too. ‘I still reckon Dracula. He doesn’t get to live that long without learning a thing or two.’
‘Yeah, but a bit of garlic, sunlight, crucifix…’ He shrugged. ‘You think the Baron won’t take all that into account? Lay some traps for him to fall into?’
Turner nodded, giving the matter serious thought.
‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘just thought I’d ask because I heard you’re a real horror film fan. The old stuff. The good stuff, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ Turner looked incredulous. ‘Why? Are you too?’
‘The old stuff. Seventies, all that. British stuff. Love it. Could sit here all night talking about it. But…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better crack on. Right.’ He opened the folder again. Looked at it. Closed it. Looked back at Turner. ‘Why did you run away from me, Mark?’ Asking the question in the same tone of voice he had used for the pub discussion.
Turner looked at him, seemingly trying to find an honest answer for him. ‘I, I…’
Mickey waited, watched. Checked the way Turner’s eyes went. Marina had briefed him, told him how to start the interview, get him onside, ask him questions, see which way his eyes went when he answered them. Up to the left for thinking and truth, down to the right for lying. Or was it the other way round? What had she said?
He scratched the back of left hand with the middle finger of his right.
‘Up to the left for the truth, down to the right for lying.’
He gave a small nod. Marina had spotted the signal, spoken to him.
Turner tried to stonewall, shrugged. ‘Just running,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know who you were. What you wanted. You’d have ran. If it had been you. Someone chasing you.’
Mickey nodded. ‘So where’s your girlfriend, then, Mark? She done a runner too?’
Turner shrugged.
‘Didn’t share your taste in films? Her idea of an evening in wasn’t sitting down to watch
Turner’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You’ve seen
‘Great film,’ said Mickey. ‘Not what you’d call a horror film, though. Comedy classic, more like.’
He heard Marina give a small chuckle in his ear. ‘Good old Milhouse, knew we could rely on him…’
Mickey leaned across the table. Speaking again like they were two mates in a pub, about something more important this time. ‘She’s left you, Mark. Gone.’
Turner shook his head. ‘No…’
‘Yeah.’ Mickey nodded his head in sympathy. ‘She has, mate. Gone. Sorry, but she’s abandoned you. Left you here to take the full brunt of it.’
He kept shaking his head, more vehemently now. ‘No, no, she wouldn’t, never, no…’
‘She has. So you may as well tell us what happened.’
Nothing. Just Turner shaking his head.
‘You see, with her gone, there’s just you. And everything gets pinned on you. The murders, the abductions, the misleading of a police investigation, everything. All down to you.’
No response.
‘But if you start talking, tell me things…’ Mickey shrugged. ‘It’ll make things a lot easier for you. Help you in the long run.’
Turner stopped shaking his head. Sat completely still, staring at the desk. Mickey waited.
Eventually Turner looked up. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.
‘You nearly had me there. Copper.’
Mickey frowned. ‘What you talking about?’
‘The films, all that. Dracula, Frankenstein, God,
Mickey said nothing.
‘She said this is what you’d say to me. What you’d try to get me to do if I ended up here. She knew that, course she did. She’s a psychologist, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Not a very good one,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.
Mickey scowled. He didn’t need that. Marina apologised.
Turner sat back, folded his arms. ‘Anyway. It’s done.’
‘What’s done, Mark?’
